Salvation Song
by rahleeyah
Summary: AU: In the days before his father's death, His Royal Highness Prince Lucien returns at last to the country he had abandoned. Struggling with the weight of his own grief and the burden of the crown that has been passed to him, he must try his best to guide himself and his people, and along the way he discovers his own salvation, in a most unexpected place. Still set post-WW2.
1. Chapter 1

_We came for salvation  
__We came for family  
__We came for all that's good that's how we'll walk away  
__We came to break the bad  
__We came to cheer the sad  
__We came to leave behind the world a better way_

_-"Salvation Song"/The Avett Brothers_

* * *

_1 October 1958_

On a cool night, beneath a heavy blanket of fog, on a cobblestone street amidst the crumbling grandiosity of a forgotten capital of old Europe, a most remarkable event took place, with no one there to witness it.

After a very long absence, a man was coming home.

He had stepped out of a black cab, and tipped the driver outrageously, and he had remained frozen on the pavement as the cab drove away. As the seconds ticked by still he lingered, standing beneath the green and white striped awning of a bakery, billows of steam rising periodically from the grate below, mingling with the fog and the mist and turning everything in sight hazy and grey and insubstantial. He stood with his back to the bakery, wrapped in a heavy grey coat with the collar turned up against the chill. On his head he wore a black fedora, as was his habit, and between the fog and the steam and the coat collar and the hat his features remained cloaked in shadow. As he stood, still, frozen in a misty, murky moment, he reached into his pocket, and withdrew a battered cigarette case. He pulled one out, and tucked it between his lips. From the cigarette case he retrieved a small pack of matches, of the kind often distributed by hotels to their anonymous guests. With an ease borne of practice he struck the match, held the flame to his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. If any one had been present to witness it, they would have seen in that moment the way the tiny flame threw his features into sharp relief, the sunken pockets of his eyes, the square line of his jaw visible even beneath a neat salt-and-pepper beard. The man was unobserved, however, as he shook out the match and dropped it onto the pavement at his feet, as he tucked the cigarette case back into his pocket, as he stood, still and calm, as if he were waiting for something.

In a way he was. He was waiting to be caught, waiting for the men who'd brought him here - the men he had promptly evaded and left floundering in his wake, confused and concerned - to come barreling down upon him. He was waiting for fanfare of some sort, for a chorus of shouts to erupt from the stone facade of the grand building across the way, for the heavens to open and pour down the rain that had been threatening for most of the day in place of this miserable mist. He was waiting for his own heart, waiting to feel...something. Surely, he told himself, a night as momentous as this one should _feel _momentous. Surely, he told himself, his heart ought to have been full to bursting in that moment, with joy at his homecoming, grief at his circumstances, anger for the hand that had been dealt to him by cruel fate.

And yet, he felt none of those things. He stood, still and waiting, and felt...nothing. He felt the mist settle damp on his cheeks, and relaxed deeper into the recesses of his coat. He felt the chill began to sink into his fingertips, and buried his hands deep in his pockets. He felt the rasp of the smoke as he puffed on his cigarette, the smoke and the mist and the fog and the steam swirling round his head, turning him into the very image of an old, garrulous officer standing in a field in France; he had seen something like it once, he thought, on a newsreel during the war.

The damned bloody war.

As he gazed at his surroundings now he saw no sign that the war had ever touched this place. It had, he knew; bombs had fallen on this city, had left some of its greatest treasures no more than smoldering ruins. People had traded everything they had - sometimes their very selves - for bags of sugar and blocks of butter in back alleys, made desperate by strict rations. Families had wept, as their young men marched off in ill-fitting uniforms, some of them never to return.

And yet _he _had returned, thirteen years after the war had ended. Old, and weary, broken in soul and in body, he had returned to this place he had once called home, this place a part of him had thought - had _hoped - _he would never see again. He had not gone to war thinking he would die, but then the Japanese had come, and he had prayed for it. Prayed for an end, a release, prayed for peace and eternal slumber away from violence and pain and misery and the endless parade of loss. It seemed selfish, to think of it now, the way he had so desperately wished to leave the world. _People depend on you, _that's what his father always used to say. _You must be the man they need you to be. Not the man that you are._

He had not understood, when he was young. He had only heard his father's admonishment, the biting critique of his character, and he had felt only the insolent rage of the very young in response to the very old. That rage had propelled him out into the world, sent him in search of the true nature of his own self. He had known, then, what sort of man his father wanted him to be. He had not known, yet, what sort of man he was.

Now, though, he supposed he had learned. Through the years he had polished many skills, and spent many a long night pouring over the shortcomings of his character with a whiskey glass in hand. Through the years he had discovered talents never before imagined - there had been a brief period in Berlin, before the war, when he had discovered to his delight that he was quite competent with a drum kit - and plumbed the very depths of his own depravity, and yet through it all, still he heard his father's chastising words. _Not the man you are. _The man he was, it seemed, would never be good enough to earn his father's praise.

Not that it mattered so very much, any more. The old man was dying; that was why he had come. Six sober faced men in dark uniforms had pulled him from his cot in a bedsit in Hong Kong, and they had dragged him bodily across the sea, watching him every moment with mistrust in their eyes. They did not know him, these men who were younger now than he had been when he went off to war. They knew only that they had been given a mission, and that failure was not an option. Oh, he had never intended to stay in Hong Kong, once they told him the truth of the matter; his father was dying, even now lying abed half-paralyzed and mute, and he had known that he must go, and pay his last respects. There were a thousand tiny details that would need to be seen to, when the old man left this world, and while some of his adolescent petulance remained he had matured enough to recognize that there were some responsibilities from which he could not hide indefinitely. Better to face them like a man.

And so he stood, still and smoking, on the pavement, and stared out into the night, through the foggy haze, at his childhood home.

_Palace_ was something of a misnomer, truth be told. It was a castle of the old guard, squat and fat and fortified, with turrets at every corner and recesses spaced regularly through the thick stone walls where centuries before archers had stood at the ready. Electric lights twinkled merrily in the windows now, rather than tallow candles. The moat had been filled with dirt and planted with wildflowers, and the heavy wooden drawbridge had been replaced by a wrought iron gate. Two soldiers stood sentry by that gate, but they did not carry swords; they were dressed in sharp navy uniforms, turned black by the mist, and they held rifles in place of spears. They stood with their backs as straight as his own, staring at him from across the way, but he could not be sure if they'd taken note of him. They must have done, he supposed, but they did not move or chatter amongst themselves. It occurred to him they might well have been statutes, but for the latent threat of those rifles. No marble could wound so deeply as a bullet.

The city had grown up around the castle, somewhere in the dark days before William the Conqueror ever arrived at Hastings. The keep itself had once been home to a master blacksmith and a master tanner and a master brewer and a master-at-arms and countless other masters of countless other fields, but as their little country prospered the castle could no longer house them all. The merchants came first with carts, and then established tents, as he recalled from his history lessons, eventually giving way to shacks, giving way to stone buildings. The industrial revolution had boomed through that city aided by the discovery of a massive copper deposit only a few miles away. The city had belched smog and productivity and the wheel of progress had churned inexorably on. The castle did not sit alone its high hill surrounded by green fields and the gentle bend of the river any longer; it now sat at the beating heart of the most beautiful, most hopeless city he had ever seen.

A car drove by, splashing through a puddle and leaving the legs of his trousers dripping. His cigarette had all but burnt out between his lips, and no feeling of certainty had come to him.

_Best press on, _he told himself.

And so he pitched his cigarette into the grate, squared his shoulders, and marched across the street.

The guards noticed his approach at once. They moved as one, stepping so that they stood side-by-side and barred the gate behind them. There was no pavement on this side of the street; pedestrians were not encouraged to approach. If he had looked up he would have seen another half dozen men at the least standing on the catwalk above him, rifles trained on his head, but he paid them no mind. He had spent enough of his life staring down the barrel of a gun, and he was not keen to repeat the experience.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said as he approached, pulling his hands out of his pockets and holding them out in front of him to show he meant no harm.

"Move along," one of them said, a young man whose face was still round and sweet, though his eyes seemed terribly sad.

"I believe you're expecting me," he answered.

The guard on the left nudged his somber compatriot, and an unspoken question seemed to hang in the air between them.

"Get the boss!" The first lad said. That was enough to set his fears at rest; they had been expecting him, after all. Perhaps they did not know him on sight, but they could hardly be expected to; the last time he had passed through that gate neither of these lads had even been born.

He did not try to make small talk with the guards as they waited for _the boss; _palace guards were a touchy lot, and not eager to make friends. Besides, it simply wasn't done; those boys were only doing their job, and it would be most impolite to distract them or belittle the earnest duty with which they had been charged. He knew his father believed he had never been a good listener, that he had never retained a single lesson the old man tried to teach him, but the truth was quite the opposite; he had known, all his life, exactly what was expected of him. He just hadn't done it.

More than five minutes, but less than ten, passed before another man appeared at the gate. He was older, much older than either of the boys who stood guard outside, and he walked with a limp, leaning heavily on a cane. His hair was blonde and short, and the rise of his cheeks so sharp they could have cut glass. His eyes were set deep back in his face, and for a moment he stood in silence, staring out into the night. Two electric lamps stood on either side of the heavy iron gate, and the man took one step towards them, intending to shed a bit more light on his own face so that _the boss _might seen him better, and know him for who he was. The young guards tensed and tried to bar his path, but their boss only smiled, a quick, mirthless smile.

"Open the gate!" he roared, the words sharp and loud, and then he took a step back as the heavy machinery began to move, as the lads above obeyed his orders without hesitation.

He did not speak to the guards, only waited until the gate was open, and then stepped through, following the line of pavement that led straight from that gate to the entrance of the castle. The moment he had cleared it the gate gave a might groan, and slowly swung back together, shutting out the world beyond and imprisoning Prince Lucien once more within the walls that were his birthright.

"Your Royal Highness," the boss said as he drew near, bowing his head as was required of him.

"I can't believe you're still here, Matthew," the prince answered, reaching out to shake his old friend's hand. It was a gift he had not looked for, to find a familiar face so soon upon arrival. When they were very small, Matthew's mother had been a cook, and the cook's boy and the crown prince had run laughing through the halls of the castle without a care in the world. And then Her Majesty the Queen had met an untimely end, and the prince's days of joy and peace were ended, too.

"Welcome home, sir," Matthew answered.


	2. Chapter 2

_1 October 1958_

"What happened to your escort?" Matthew asked as they followed the long winding pavement from the gate to the front door. The hour was grown late indeed, but the castle never truly slept; there were guards, always, standing mute on the catwalk above, stalking the grounds, and inside there lurked an industrious butler whose sole purpose in life was to wait in a large, comfortable chair by the fireplace should the occasion arrive when his services were called for, and others whose duties Lucien had never quite understood who nonetheless patrolled the lower levels of his family home in the still dark hours of the night. In the past the castle had seemed to him to be a living thing, plumbing and electrical wires running through the stone walls like veins through a body, a steady heartbeat of crackling fires and footsteps accompanying the despondent sighs and rattles so characteristic of old buildings. And in all the kingdom there was no building older than this, this titanic monument to an ancient way of life that had long since faded into memories.

"They slowed me down," Lucien told him with a wry grin. In truth it had chafed, being watched every moment. The soldiers had come to him, sent by the Prime Minister with news that his father the king was ailing, that the time had come for him to put aside his childish pursuits and return to his responsibilities. Lucien resented the condescending tone of the note sent to him by the Prime Minister, but he understood Sir Patrick's concerns, and had offered no argument. He understood, too, why soldiers had been sent to claim him, why during his journey he had not been permitted a moment's privacy, even in the loo; he was precious cargo indeed, the future of their kingdom bound up in the shape of one very tired man, and the soldiers could not, would not, relax until he was safely ensconced within the walls of the castle. Lucien had been too long in the world, however, had spent too many years living life according to his own preferences, and the sudden reminder of the restraints that would be placed upon him when he returned home was galling. There had been a moment of confusion when their ship arrived in port, when the soldiers who were his escort were trying to arrange travel from the docks to the castle, and Lucien had slipped away from them, had seized this last opportunity to enjoy his anonymity. He did not know when next he might be allowed to hail a cab, to chat amenably to the driver, to stand upon a street corner unremarked and unobserved, and he had not quite realized how precious that freedom was to him until he felt it begin to slip from his grasp.

"They won't like that," Matthew grumbled.

"No," Lucien agreed, "I can't imagine that they will."

The castle door swung open as they approached; this, too, had once been wooden, rough-hewn and carved in intricate, grandiose patterns, but time and progress had taken their toll, and that wood had been replaced with a heavy, reinforced steel. A butler stood waiting as Lucien and Matthew stepped inside, and he offered a flowery, overdone sort of bow in greeting.

"Welcome home, your Royal Highness," the butler said, still bowing.

Matthew did not roll his eyes, but he came very close.

"The prince's escort has been waylaid," Matthew told the man. "They should have a radio, see if you can contact them and let them know he's made it home safely."

"At once, Commander," the obsequious man said, and then he was scurrying away, and the door closed behind them with a clang that seemed to carry with it an eerie sort of finality.

"Home sweet home," Lucien said, a bit bitterly, as he gazed around. The place had not changed much; the door opened onto a vast, marble-floored foyer, the ceiling rising high into shadows overhead. There was a grand staircase off to the left, and to the right corridors and entryways led to offices and ballrooms and dining rooms and the like. The first floor of the castle was for entertaining, the second for the business of statecraft, the third for housing those employees - servants, really - whose constant presence was deemed a necessity, the fourth for housing the royal family. The walls were hung with a strange mixture of artifacts; ancient tapestries and old family crests, portraits of kings and the creations of some of the most renowned artists of the day. In the daylight the foyer seemed almost to glow as the sunshine came slanting in through the high, narrow windows, but it was late, and the flicker of the lamps was feeble at best.

"Can I see my father?" Lucien asked as Matthew began to lead him across the foyer, towards the staircase. Matthew's steps were slow, now, and the steady _tap_ _tap tap _of his cane seemed to match the tempo of Lucien's own heartbeat. However he had come to be wounded it seemed that his injury had not stalled Matthew's career; commander of the palace guard was a high honor indeed, and spoke to the level of esteem in which the king held him.

"Not tonight," Matthew told him, without an ounce of pity. The pair of them had been barely twenty, the last time they spoke, and while Matthew had always been a somber sort of man Lucien did not recall him having ever been quite this glum; it was not a comforting revelation.

"Doctor's orders," he elaborated after a moment. "The king needs his rest. Seeing you will be shock enough. Best not wake him just to scare him senseless."

"Quite right," Lucien agreed.

And then they were mounting the stairs. They moved slowly, spiraling up into shadow; on the second floor the stairs turned off to the right, and then again on third, and by the time they reached the fourth they were almost on the other side of the castle altogether, and both of them a bit short of breath.

"Christ, I didn't miss those stairs," Lucien complained.

Beside him Matthew huffed out a laugh. "You'd think after all these years I'd be used to them," he said, "but truth be told, I hate them. His Majesty won't hear of installing an elevator. Or he wouldn't, before…"

His voice trailed off but Lucien did not push him; there was no need. The king had suffered a near-fatal stroke, and been rendered mute and all but paralyzed. The truth of his condition had been concealed from the general public, while every last member of the government gave themselves over to near hysterics, consumed with worry over the fate of their kingdom. The king had but one son, one son who had gone abroad for a university education and never come home again. The king had but one sister, who was herself in ill health, whose children had died, whose only living heir was a granddaughter who had gone quite mad, and been sent to live out her days in a quiet institution far from the public eye. Lucien was the country's only hope; had he not returned when called for, had he shirked his duties, the petty squabbling of cousins vying over the succession could very easily have brought the kingdom to its knees. He might have had no interest in ruling, might have found the whole concept of a monarchy outdated and unnecessary and distasteful, but Lucien could not have in good conscience stayed away, knowing that his absence had incited a civil war. He had no _choice,_ and he had always hated being backed into a corner.

"Here we are, sir," Matthew said as they came to a stop outside a familiar door. This had been Lucien's suite, once, in another life, and it seemed that now it would be again. Having done his duty in delivering the prince safely to his quarters Matthew turned to leave, but Lucien reached out, placed a hand on his shoulder and gently stopped his progress.

"Come and have a drink with me, Matthew," he said. "For old time's sake."

For a moment Matthew studied him, as if considering declining the invitation, as if wondering whether he even could, and then he shrugged.

"Just the one, then," he said.

Lucien smiled, and swung the door wide.

The suite was comprised of four rooms. The door opened onto a formal sitting room, complete with a well-stocked drinks cart and an array of comfortable chairs and expensive sidetables. To the left a door opened onto the bedroom, which boasted its own private bathroom. To the right, a door opened onto a study of sorts, lined with bookcases, complete with a heavy desk situated directly in front of a broad, beautiful window. Though this place had belonged to him from the moment of his birth Lucien had never been particularly comfortable here; the furnishings were old, and far too fine for a young boy, and it had always been clear to Lucien that he was not allowed to romp and play as other children did. It would not do, to damage such nice things.

"Scotch?" he asked, gravitating at once towards the drinks cart. That had been added on his eighteenth birthday, a gift from his father to signal his entry into the world of men. Perhaps the king had hoped that his son was serious enough, responsible enough, to be allowed such unfettered access to drink; if he had thought such things, he had been very wrong indeed.

"Just the one," Matthew said again, shifting a bit uncomfortably on his feet. Belatedly Lucien realized the cause of his old friend's distress; it was not the prince's place to pour drinks for a subordinate, and Matthew could not sit until the prince had done the same. _Damn it all, _he thought glumly. For the last two decades and more he had lived in a world without such rules, and he was not looking forward to living by their proscriptions once again.

"For god's sake, Matthew, sit down," he said, with a bit more heat than he'd intended. "Give your leg a rest after all those stairs."

"As you wish, sir," Matthew said. He did not protest, Lucien noted, merely sank at once into the closest armchair, and Lucien supposed he ought to have been grateful that his old friend had given in so easily.

The drinks poured then Lucien turned and joined him, passed him a glass before settling into the chair directly across from him.

"A toast," he said, leaning forward so that he and Matthew could clink their glasses together. "To the commander of the palace guard."

Matthew's expression soured, but he took a drink just the same.

"How did that happen, anyway?" Lucien asked. When he'd left home Matthew had only just joined the palace guard, and had been seriously considering life outside the walls of the castle. As he recalled, Matthew had wanted to be a proper copper, and Lucien found it somewhat sad that his old friend had not achieved that dream.

"You stick around long enough, and they promote you. The longer you stay, the higher you go. And I've been here longer than anyone."

Lucien laughed. "You always were too modest for your own good," he said. However Matthew chose to frame it, Lucien knew that his old friend must have shown himself to be brave, competent, steady, reliable, possessed of a dozen good qualities and mettle of steel in order to be trusted with such a post.

Matthew did not have a response, and for a moment they sipped their drinks in silence. It was a silence that borrowed beneath Lucien's skin, made him itch with the need to stand, to pace, to wave his arms around in distress at his circumstances, to drink, and drink, and drink, until he fell into a stupor, and woke once more in Hong Kong. There was no chance of that now, though, he knew. This was no dream; he had been allowed many long years to live life on his own terms, and that freedom was ended.

"What do I need to know, Matthew?" he asked, trying to shatter that silence, trying to find some occupation for his anxious mind.

"About what, sir?" Matthew asked him carefully. This, too, was to be expected; the commander of the palace guard could not be permitted to air his grievances openly to the heir apparent. _Things are done in a certain way, _Lucien heard his father's voice echoing in his mind, _and they are done that way for a reason, and it is not your place to challenge the order of this world. _

"The country. The government. My father. Please, Matthew, be candid. I'm afraid I've been gone too long, and you're the only friend I have here. I need to know."

"I think I'll need a top up first," Matthew said wryly. The words made Lucien smile; perhaps, he thought, the order of things did not have to be as strict as his father had always told him. Without a word of complaint he rose and refilled both their glasses, and returned to his chair at once, eager to hear what Matthew had to tell him.

"The country is in fine shape," he began. "The war was hard, but industry was kind to us, and there's enough to go around. The people are fed. And here, like everywhere else, things are changing. The women went to work during the war, and they didn't like being told to go back home. Most of them didn't. But we're finding our way. The government is…" he spent a quiet moment searching for the right word and then at last settled upon, "contentious. The Lords represent the old way, the Commons are fighting for the new. And Sir Patrick is caught in the middle."

"Is he still as old-fashioned and as miserable as he was when we were young?" Lucien asked dryly. He had not cared for Sir Patrick when the man had been no more than a young member of the House of Lords; now that he had been made Prime Minister, Lucien could not imagine his estimation of the portly knight would have improved.

"He's doing what he thinks is right," Matthew replied evenly.

"And my father?"

Once again, Matthew was quiet for a long moment. "He's not well," he said at last. "It's good you came when you did."

"I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I?" Lucien asked, his tone bitter even to his own ears.

Matthew regarded him for a long moment, and then took another sip of his drink. "No," he agreed. "I don't suppose you did."

* * *

A petrified-looking young man woke Lucien in the morning, and announced in a quivering voice that he would be serving as the prince's valet. Though Lucien had intended to be kind to the lad he had drunk rather more than was wise the night before, had woken feeling like a bear with a sore head, and his words had been rather abrupt. Another misstep, he told himself, to be corrected at a later date. He took his breakfast in his sitting room, looking longingly at the drinks cart and very seriously considering prescribing himself a treatment of hair of the dog before the older, wiser, more responsible piece of his heart intervened. He dressed carefully; sometime in the night his escort had arrived, and his bags had been delivered to his room, and some industrious servant had pressed his suit. The valet had stammered his way through an offer to assist Lucien with dressing, but he sent the boy on his way. _It hasn't come to that yet, _he thought to himself; some things he could still do on his own.

And when he was ready, fed and dressed and fortified, he squared his shoulders, and made his way down the corridor to his father's rooms.

Two guards stood sentry at the door to the king's private suite, but these two lads were better prepared for Lucien's arrival than the pair he had met the night before.

"Your Royal Highness," one of them said as they both came to attention.

"I'd like to see my father, please," Lucien answered. A strange expression crossed the boy's face, and it took Lucien a moment to work out the reason for his confusion. It was the _please_ that had thrown him off balance, Lucien realized; princes were not meant to say _please_ to anyone.

"Of course, sir," the young man said. "The doctor has been in already this morning, and word was left that you were to be allowed entry whenever it suits you."

While he was speaking the second guard had turned and opened the door, and so Lucien only murmured _thank you,_ and passed through it.

The king's suite, like his own, opened onto a sitting room, though the suite boasted several more rooms, a grander view, and grander furnishings. The bedroom door was open, and so it was there that Lucien went at once. He lingered in the doorway for a moment; a woman was sitting in a chair by his father's bed, a plate balanced daintily upon her knees, and she was in the very act of lifting a spoon to the king's lips when she noticed Lucien's arrival.

"Your Royal Highness," she said at once. Graceful as a dancer she rose to her feet, one hand taking the plate and resting it on the side table while she gave a quick, neat curtsy. She looked to be forty, or thereabouts, with little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth that brought to mind the memory of a thousand gentle smiles. Her hair was dark and artfully curled according to the fashion of the day, and her dark navy dress clung to her lithe frame in a way that made Lucien's breath catch in his throat. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, her features delicate and lovely, and as he stared at her he forgot himself entirely.

"My apologies for interrupting," he said.

She looked at him strangely. "Not at all, sir," she answered in a clear, soft voice. "His Majesty has had quite enough of breakfast, I think, and will be quite happy to see you. Please, come in."

It did not seem possible, in that moment, to ignore her gentle command, and Lucien was halfway across the room before it occurred to him that he had just allowed some nameless member of the staff to tell him what to do. There was no time to think on the strangeness of it, however, for she had wiped the king's chin and spoken to him softly and taken up the plate again by the time he reached her.

"Your Majesty," she said in parting, offering a curtsy to his father, and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her as she vanished, though the faintest hint of her floral perfume lingered on the air in her wake.

With a sigh Lucien settled himself into the chair the woman had so recently vacated, and took a moment to stare at his father with sorrow in his heart.

The king was thin, far too thin, his arms and legs limp beneath the duvet, his eyes sunken into a face that had grown impossibly wrinkled with time. When last Lucien had seen him, King Thomas had been a tall, proud, straight-backed man with a full mustache and an iron will, but age and infirmity had laid him low, and Lucien did not appreciate this reminder of the way all life must inevitably end. The king's thin lips moved, slightly, as if he were struggling to speak, and then Lucien noticed with a sinking heart that there were tears in the corners of his father's eyes.

"Hello, dad," he said softly. "I know we've had our differences. And I know we never quite forgave one another. But I'm here now, and...and everything is going to be all right."

It was a lie, but one that Lucien desperately needed to believe.


	3. Chapter 3

_2 October 1958_

The castle seems to operate autonomously, fully capable of managing its own affairs even while the king lay dying in his bed. Meals were made and linens changed and fires laid as if nothing were amiss, people passing through the corridors, industriously going about their business, and though Lucien knew it was not so he could not help but feel as if it were the stones themselves that gave the orders. The castle did not seem to care that Lucien's father was mute, that he could not so much as raise his right arm, that he could do no more than lay still and weeping and staring at his son, unable to communicate his distress or his confusion, his forgiveness or his derision. For a time Lucien had sat with him, had even reached out and taken his father's hand in his own. It was not affection that compelled him, necessarily; he harbored little fondness for the old man, truth be told. But Thomas was dying, and Lucien had been a doctor in the life he'd chosen for himself - the life that had been summarily stripped away from him - and two decades' worth of work in that field had filled him with compassion for the diseased and the dying.

Thomas had not approved of Lucien's chosen vocation. As a young man Lucien had been sent to Edinburgh to study history, like his father before him. He had enjoyed it well enough, but his curious heart had been drawn towards medicine as a moth to a flame. The virtues his father had tried to instill in him from birth - concern for his fellow man, a sense of duty to aid those in need, responsibility and chivalry - had likewise urged him to pursue a course of study that would help him to care for people in a tangible way. Thomas had not known when Lucien changed the focus of his coursework at university; Thomas paid the bills, and Lucien did not mention his school work in his brief letters home, and the soldiers sent to guard him could not have cared less either way. The truth came out eventually, as it always must, and Thomas had been livid when he discovered Lucien's deception. By then it had been too late; the thing was done.

After university it was Thomas who suggested Lucien join the army. Thomas was hale and hearty, the realm at peace, and the king thought a bit of structure and discipline would be a benefit to his son. Once again, however, Lucien had snubbed his father; their own kingdom's army was small and contained within their borders, but they had always enjoyed a friendly relationship with the British Empire, and it was the British army Lucien joined as a medic. That, too, was done before Thomas could put a stop to it; Lucien had sworn a solemn oath to serve, and there was no way for Thomas to secure his release from such a pledge and maintain his kingdom's honor at the same time.

And in the beginning, it wasn't so very bad. Thomas had assigned a young soldier named Derek Alderton to be Lucien's minder, and the pair of them had enjoyed a grand adventure. The army sent them to Singapore, as far from home as Lucien could possibly get, and there the only people who called him _sir _were junior officers and enlisted men. Lucien practiced medicine, and caused all sorts of trouble with Derek, and fell in love, and thought little of his father. Until 1937, when tensions between Japan and China escalated, when Italy and Germany were rattling their sabers, when Spain was tearing itself to pieces; _come home, Lucien,_ Thomas had implored him in a letter. _You are the future of our kingdom. It is time to put aside this foolishness, and assume the responsibilities you were born to. _

Lucien's answer had been brief. _No, _he'd said.

Another letter had come in 1939; war had begun in Europe in earnest, and Thomas was nearly apoplectic. He'd always been a conservative, isolationist sort of ruler, and he wanted no part in the war that threatened to drown the entire world. _We will close our borders, _he'd written to Lucien. _We will keep our people safe. Let the others fight it out amongst themselves; this is not our war. _

But the king could not send his own people to retrieve a British soldier, not if that soldier would not willingly to consent to leave, and by then Lucien had firmly decided where his loyalties lay. He did not share his father's views and he could not abandon the men who were as good as his brothers, these men whose care was his responsibility. There were others he could not abandon, as well, but he could not think of them now without weeping. For over a year he and his father had exchanged heated letters, arguing the merits of their perspectives, neither of them giving any ground. And then came December of 1941, and the Japanese bombs.

There were no more letters after that.

It all seemed so very long ago, those rebellious days of his youth, but something about returning home at last, seeing his father once more, brought it all back. The anger he'd felt at having his choices made for him, the wild, reckless joy of throwing his father's commands back in the old man's teeth and setting off on his own, the pain that had haunted his steps for so very long; it all swirled round and round inside his mind, left him melancholy and quiet. At noontime he ate a light lunch in his rooms, and then strolled around the castle grounds, the echo of bombs and bullets ricocheting down through the years and ringing in his ears like some ghastly portent of doom. How different might things have been, he asked himself, if he and his father had tried more earnestly to understand one another back then? What course would his life have taken, if he had only done as his father asked? Would his heart be so burdened with grief, if either of them had chosen a different path?

Did it matter?

That evening Lucien ate alone in his suite, his meal served to him by his nervous valet. He had learned that the lad's name was Peter, but no further information on his life or his background had been forthcoming, and Lucien hadn't tried very hard to draw it out. It was a strange day, a bleak day; he was no more than a crown prince, and though Thomas was hardly competent to rule it seemed the great machinery of the government moved even slower than Lucien's memories. They would come for him eventually, he knew; Sir Patrick was the one who had written to him, dispatched men to retrieve him, and the Prime Minister would not have done so if he did not have plans that hinged on the prince's presence in the capital. What those plans were Lucien could not say, and Sir Patrick had not tried to reach him.

Yet.

It would be a problem for another day. After supper Lucien set to drinking with a grim determination, filling his glass again and again, sitting at his desk and staring blankly at a book he was making no real attempt to read. _They want me to be king,_ he thought while he swigged his whiskey with all the enthusiasm of a man who wanted to die. _They want to keep me here, forever. _No more travelling the world, no more entertaining himself with whatever pretty girl caught his eye, no more desperate, fevered attempts to locate that which he had misplaced, that which was more precious to him than anything else in the world. No, a king was not meant for such a life. Endless meetings with government lackeys and wrangling over budgets and the struggling national health service and placating the working people, parties and state dinners and carefully staged public appearances, every moment of his life planned and dictated to him by someone else; that was the life he was born to lead, and it had come for him at last.

It was after ten when Lucien rose from his chair, somewhat unsteadily, and made his way out into the night. Sleep would not come for hours yet, if it came at all, and the ghosts in his mind were calling out so loudly he thought they might well drive him mad. A brisk walk in the chill October air would do him good, he thought, and so he made his way carefully up the spiraling stone staircase buried in the back corner of the castle, and emerged at last upon the battlements.

Guards were pacing along the parapet, but there were none close enough to speak to him, and Lucien was glad of it. He didn't want their bowed heads, their respectful _your Royal Highnesses_; he wanted peace. And maybe a bit more of the whiskey he'd left in his suite.

He turned to the right, and let his feet carry him where they wanted to go. A half-formed thought floated through his mind, that he could track down one of the guards and ask them where Matthew was, could go and find his old friend and wile away a few hours with him, but in the end he let the inclination pass without acting on it. It was late, and if he weren't already asleep Matthew likely had more important things to do than spend his time babysitting a drunken prince.

The night was foggy, as most nights in October were wont to be, and Lucien moved through that fog silent as a ghost. There was no one up here to see him, no one to take note of his agony, his distress; he was alone, and he felt himself to be as insubstantial as the mist that settled upon his skin, as if he could at any moment dissolve into memories and float away.

_That's the whiskey talking, _he thought, but still that sense of hopelessness lingered. It seemed to him that the longer he stayed in this place the more his very self would fade into shadows. He was Lucien Blake - the surname he'd chosen for himself while serving in the army - no longer. He was not a doctor, a husband, a father, a friend. He was a crown prince, soon to be king, and his own desires and ideals would cease to matter. _Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, and all that, _he thought.

As he walked along the smooth, faded stones of this castle that had stood on this spot since time immemorial he quite forgot that there were other people about. The guards seemed to be giving him a wide berth, and beneath him the castle slept, for the most part. He did not think to encounter anyone up here at this hour, and so he was quite unprepared when he turned a corner and found himself confronted by a most unusual sight.

It was a woman, the same woman who had been feeding his father breakfast when he arrived in the king's suite that morning. She had wrapped a heavy cream shawl around her shoulders over her navy dress, but the curl of her dark hair, the curve of her neck, the rise of her cheek were unmistakable. At first she did not mark him; she was staring up at the sky, as if despite the lamps that glowed at intervals all around them and the steady glow of the city beyond the castle walls she could see the stars. As if she could see them, and she loved them. Her expression was peaceful, her posture unguarded, and for a moment Lucien envied her that apparent sense of contentment, for he had felt nothing but distress for weeks.

The spell was broken in a moment, for though Lucien had not moved, had made no sound, had hardly breathed she seemed to sense his presence. She turned her head, and her eyes went wide as she realized who had interrupted her contemplation.

"Your Royal Highness," she said, offering him a graceful curtsy. There was no warmth in her, no soft smile, but neither did she appear anxious or concerned; she had a proud bearing, and Lucien rather liked it. Most of the servants he'd encountered so far had fled the moment they caught sight of him, or fallen all over themselves trying to flatter or appease him, but this woman had done neither. She only stood, still and quiet, waiting to see what he might do.

"Good evening," he said. He tried to smile at her - he smiled at every beautiful woman who crossed his path - but it came out rather sickly, and he did not try again. He wanted to speak to her, was perishing with the need for earnest conversation, but the words would not come, and a long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

"Well," she said at last, while Lucien's tongue remained firmly lodged against the roof of his mouth. "By your leave, sir."

It was the right thing to do, the polite thing to do; decorum dictated that she could not simply turn her back on a prince, but likewise it was not a servant's place to stand in the way of their soon-to-be sovereign. She had no choice but to depart, if he would not detain or engage her. It occurred to Lucien then that he had placed her in a most uncomfortable predicament; they were standing in the far southern corner of the castle, hidden from view of the guards by the turn of a broad stone tower, and she was a lady alone with a man she did not know, a drunken man, well after dark.

"Begging your pardon," Lucien said, noting the momentary flash of confusion across her face at his courtesy. "I didn't mean to intrude, Miss-?"

"It's _Mrs,"_ she told him, lifting her chin slightly as if in defiance. "I'm Mrs. Beazley."

"Mrs. Beazley," he said. "Won't you stay a while, Mrs. Beazley? I have some questions, if you don't mind."


	4. Chapter 4

_I have some questions, if you don't mind._

She eyed him warily for a moment, and then gave a little nod. "All right, then," she said. She hadn't called him _sir_ that time, and Lucien was glad of it.

"Can you tell me, Mrs. Beazley, what is your role here?"

It seemed as good a place as any to start. Though he knew he would likely never complete the task Lucien wanted, very much, to know as many of the people working in the castle as he could. Those people, maids and cooks and groundskeepers and butlers, were the only ordinary people he was likely to meet again for quite some time. Those people, the guards and the mechanics and the drivers, were his only link to the outside world, and he needed that connection desperately. He needed to know the sentiments of his people, their fears and their hopes, needed to know what was expected of him in order to best care for them. The very thought of ruling over an entire kingdom of strangers was not appealing to him in the least, but his father's health was failing, and he supposed he had to start somewhere. Mrs. Beazley evidently enjoyed some status among the servants, given that she was the one who had been feeding the king alone that morning, given that the guards appeared unbothered by her appearance on the rooftop late at night. Such a position could only be attained after many years of faithful service, and if she had indeed been employed there for quite some time she was likely to be familiar with the attitudes of her compatriots.

"I'm the Chief Housekeeper," she told him, still watching him suspiciously.

"You've been here for quite some time then, yes?"

"About fifteen years, sir."

That satisfied Lucien's immediate concern; it would appear that Mrs. Beazley was in fact an integral part of the fabric of life in the castle. The Chief Housekeeper was in charge of all the maids for every one of the royal houses - of which there were four, including the castle on top of which they now stood - and oversaw most of the day-to-day operations of those houses. Her word was law, and no one would violate it. There were others with more lofty titles, with more ceremonious duties, but hers was the key to the whole operation. Everyone would know her, and she would know everyone, and he doubted there was a single grievance that would slip past her watchful eye.

Having dispensed with that portion of his queries, he floundered for a moment, wondering how to approach the subject that most concerned him. He was glad to have made her acquaintance, glad to have a sturdy, practical soul to speak to, but still he felt himself on an uneven footing, unsure which course of action would be the best to take.

"I've been away from home for quite some time," Lucien began, faltering slightly when he caught sight of her expression. Chin lifted, eyes narrowed, arms crossed tightly in front of her, Mrs. Beazley looked every inch the disapproving school marm. "I worry that my people don't know me, that I don't know them."

"And you're afraid they won't trust you? Sir?" she asked shrewdly. For all that she was beautiful it would seem that Mrs. Beazley was quite clever, too, and she had seen to the heart of his dilemma at once. Lucien knew he shouldn't like that about her, but he did just the same.

"Well...yes."

It might have been a bad idea, broaching this topic with a stranger, but Lucien had had rather a lot to drink, and he was consumed with worry for the future, and Mrs. Beazley was lovely, and the gold band sparkling on her finger made him feel somehow safe, as if he could trust himself to confide in her - and admire her - without being tempted, knowing she belonged to another.

"I think everyone is just a bit...confused, sir," she told him after a moment's thoughtful pause. "You were hardly more than a boy the last time any of us saw you. All through the war there were rumors, but no one knew where you were. Your father was here, and he saw us through that catastrophe, but you-"

"Abandoned my countrymen," Lucien supplied grimly.

"I wouldn't have said it quite that way." Her tone was not exactly soft, but it wasn't accusing, either, and Lucien took that as a point in his favor.

"You worry too much," she told him, and he found it rather an odd thing for her to say, given they'd only just met one another and she could hardly have been privy to his internal struggles so early on in their acquaintance. And yet as he looked at her in the feeble light from the nearby lamp he could not help but feel as if she did understand, somehow, as if she had read him like a book.

"These are trying times," she continued. "Everyone is feeling just a bit nervous. Give them time to see you, to learn what sort of man you are, and that will change."

"Do you know what sort of man I am, Mrs. Beazley?" Lucien asked, amused by the very idea.

His companion did not appear amused in the least.

"I know that you're drunk," she answered him coolly. _And just how does she know that? _He wondered. Maybe it was the trembling in his hands that gave him away. Or the smell of liquor on his breath. "And I know that you've been neglecting your responsibilities here for two decades."

"That doesn't bode well for me, does it?" In truth, Lucien didn't much care for the woman's tone, but he did not give in to his desire to chastise her, for fear that would only prove her judgement well-founded. What Lucien needed, in that moment, was a friend, and he would not give her cause to dislike more than she seemed to already.

"Where have you been, sir? If I might be permitted to ask." She'd remembered her pleasantries that time; she actually took a step back from him, as if she'd only just realized how familiar their conversation had become, and he grieved for that distance. It seemed to him that everyone was stepping back from him, now, that he was alone and reeling in the darkness.

"I was serving in the army. The British army," he added when he noted the look of confusion on her face. "I joined them as a medic when I left university, and stayed on after the war."

For a moment she studied him carefully, her grey eyes bright but unreadable in the darkness. He could almost feel the wheels in her mind turning, could almost hear her thinking.

"You were a soldier," she said softly. It wasn't a question.

"I was."

"I know you aren't asking for my advice-"

"I am, actually," he told her earnestly. "I'm a bit...lost at the moment, Mrs. Beazley. This is all very strange, and I'd welcome any assistance."

"People should know that you were a soldier," she said. Her voice had gone quiet, sad almost. Mrs. Beazley looked to be in her early forties, not much younger than Lucien himself. And, like everyone else of their age, the words _soldier_ and _the war _seemed to have brought her a host of bitter memories, a burden of sorrow he knew that none of them would ever truly shake. That war had changed the very substance of the earth, and all of the people in it. Their had been the generation that fought, and theirs had been the generation that lost. "There will be questions. People will want to know where you were. If they knew that you served in the army, they might understand, and they might appreciate it."

Lucien brooded on that for a time, turning to rest his elbows on the rough stone parapet and gaze out into the darkness of the city below. It was not in his nature to talk about himself, to ramble on about his experiences, what his war had been like. Every man who served had fought a different battle inside himself, had seen different horrors, had walked away changed. Lucien's war had been bitter, and black, full of agony and grief, and it was not a period of his life he cared to revisit. There was wisdom in what Mrs. Beazley had told him, however, and he knew it. Stories made up the fabric of people's lives; they told themselves stories to explain why the sun came up each morning, why they were still breathing, why they had been put on the earth in the first place. Stories gave structure and meaning to the relationships between people, rooted them in their homelands and bound them to their neighbors. Tell a good story, and the people would love it, and him as well. His story was not a particularly good one, nor a particularly righteous one, but he knew that it would appeal to the masses. Their brave young prince, marching off to war, dedicating himself to serving others. Their brave young prince, trapped in horror, surviving still for he knew he must one day make his way back home. Their brave young prince, returned to them at last.

He almost laughed; their brave young prince was a fiction, but if he sat down with a few newspapermen, said all the right words, they would love him just the same.

"Did you lose someone, in the war?" he asked her.

He hadn't meant to say those words, and he regretted them the moment the question passed his lips. This entire discussion had been far too personal, far too familiar, and he did not wish to pressure his companion into divulging anything she did not freely wish to share. Much as he might have wished it were not so, anything said to him was not said to Lucien the man; anything she told him was said to the crown, and she would be weighing her words carefully, whether he wanted her to or not. It wasn't any of his business, the details of her life, where she had been or who she had known, and he did not want her to feel as if she owed him this confession. He wanted to curse; he wanted to weep. For so long now he had been free, after a fashion, free from the constraints of this terrible life, and all of that freedom had been snatched from his grip the moment he was accosted in Hong Kong.

"My husband," she answered after a long moment. She came to stand beside him, resting her delicate hands flat on those selfsame stones, though she left a respectable distance between them.

He wanted, so badly, to tell her. The words were there, just on the tip of his tongue. _I lost my wife, too. I know the weight of your grief. _And yet, he could not give voice to those thoughts. His wedding had been a quiet one, attended only by Mei Lin's family, his marriage carefully concealed with Derek's help. No one, in the whole of the kingdom, knew that their young prince had been wed, that he'd had a child, that his family had been entirely swallowed by the war. It would have been a catastrophe if King Thomas had ever learned the truth; it might well have meant the end of everything for Lucien. But he had loved that girl, and he had wed her, and he had lost her. One dark night before the Japanese arrived he'd put his family on a ship bound for home with Derek to protect them. The ship had not survived the journey, and the three people Lucien loved best in all the world had been lost to the sea. That secret belonged to him, and him alone, and he could not share it with anyone, not even the very kind Mrs. Beazley.

"I'm sorry," he said, wishing there was something else, something more he could tell her, and yet knowing no words would be sufficient in the fact of this pain she still carried, all these many years later.

"It was a very long time ago," she said. It seemed to Lucien that everything was _a very long time ago, _that his world had stopped in 1942, and never got started again. His memories were distant, faded, but with him always, and nothing that had happened to him since had affected him so deeply. He had been, for 16 years, a man out of time. At least now his surroundings matched his circumstances, he thought glumly.

"This is all terribly maudlin, isn't it?" he mused aloud. He turned his head, and caught the flicker of a smile on Mrs. Beazley's face.

"Oh, I think we all feel that way when it's dark," she told him. "Things will be easier when the sun comes up, you'll see."

At that very moment he heard the crunch of a bootheel on the stones behind them, and turned to see Matthew Lawson limping towards him, grim-faced and determined.

"Matthew!" Lucien said, standing up straight and reaching out to shake his old friend's hand. Matthew did not accept him, however.

"Jean," he said, nodding his head towards Mrs. Beazley.

"Matthew," she answered him, her response somehow both perfunctory and tense.

"What's going on?" Lucien asked as the fear began to nibble around the edges of his consciousness. Something wasn't right, it seemed to him; Matthew had not yet acknowledged him, and seemed instead to be stealing himself for the revelation of some great calamity.

"I'm sorry," he said, and what scared Lucien most was that he sounded like he meant it. "The King is dead." Then he drew in a very deep breath, and nodded his head to Lucien in deference. "Long live the King."

Lucien stared at him, aghast and shaken to the very core. Beside him Mrs. Beazley looked at him sharply, tears already gathering in the corners of her eyes, and then she gave a graceful curtsy.

"Long live the King," she echoed in an unsteady voice.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter, the earnest young valet, was waiting anxiously by the door to the king's suite when Lucien arrived there, Matthew by his side and Mrs. Beazley trailing after them, discreetly wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Your Majesty," Peter said as he caught sight of Lucien, giving a deeply awkward sort of bow. "The Prime Minister is on his way, sir."

Lucien barely registered the boy's words, already reaching for the door that would lead him into the room where his father lay. In the moment, he had little care for matters of state or politics; in truth, he cared for nothing, save his own aching heart.

"When he gets here, have him wait in the counsel room," Matthew said. Technically, it was not his place to issue such orders, but he was Commander of the Palace Guard, and the security of all royal persons, living or dead, fell under his purview. Lucien did not take issue with Matthew's command, and simply opened the door.

"I'll fetch some tea," Mrs. Beazley said in a wobbly voice, and then she departed, and Matthew and Lucien made their way into the king's suite.

On leaden feet Lucien marched to his father's bedside, trying and failing to steel himself for the sight that waited for him there. Thomas was not alone; a priest stood vigil over the fallen king and a young lady in a red dress was weeping in a plush-upholstered chair in the corner. Presumably it was the young lady who had found the king unresponsive and roused the whole house; he had been told by a physician earlier in the day that the castle employed a team of doctors and nurses who administered round-the-clock care to the king in his illness. The girl clutched a stethoscope in her lap, which seemed to prove the right of his suspicions, and Lucien felt a certain pity for her. She was terribly young, and he knew from experience that while it was never easy to lose a patient, some losses hit harder than others.

"Your Majesty," the priest said, nodding his head to Lucien with a solemn sort of dignity. "If you wish to pray-"

"I wish to be alone with my father." The words came out harsher than Lucien intended, but he could not disguise the grief that threatened to consume him; he had only just returned, hoping that he would have time to sort himself out, to devise some way to communicate with his father, to make some sort of plan, and now all of that hope had been lost. To lose his father so soon was the last thing he'd expected, and his hands were trembling, his thoughts racing, the taste of bile rising sharply in the back of his throat. And no, he did not wish to pray. It had been many long years since he'd found any solace in religion; God had stopped answering his prayers years before.

When the somber priest did not immediately respond Matthew once more stepped forward.

"You heard him," Lucien's old friend growled. "Clear the room."

The girl had pulled herself together, somewhat; she curtsied to Lucien and then hurried from the room as quick as she could mange. The priest followed at a somewhat slower pace but still, he went. The Commander of the Palace Guard was not a man to be challenged.

"I'll wait for you outside, Your Majesty," Matthew said, and then he, too, departed, closing the door behind him and leaving Lucien all alone in that room that had become as still and quiet as a crypt.

With a sigh Lucien sat down on the side of his father's bed, looking down at the old man with a heart full of sorrow. The years had stolen Thomas's vigor, and he had wasted away until he was no more than a shell of his former self. But still, Lucien had been so sure that they had more _time._

_How could this have happened? _He asked himself, thoughts clouded by whiskey and the tumultuous events of the last twenty-four hours. Coming home had been hard enough, but this...there were not words for this. For most of his life Lucien had all but hated his father, hated his rules and his disapproval, hated the world he'd been born to, hated the restrictions on his person and the constant sensation that his life was not his own. Twenty years and more he'd been gone, spurning his father's attempts to bring him to heel, determined to live life according to his own terms. And what good had it brought him, in the end? His father had been laid low by illness, and Lucien had come home too late. It was too late to make amends, too late to prove to his father that he could be his own man and a good man at the same time. It was too late to ask for guidance, too late to ease himself into the public eye; this news would be all over the paper come morning, and the new king would be the only thing anyone could talk about.

As Lucien looked down at his father a strange thought occurred to him. The stroke that had taken Thomas months before had been catastrophic, left him paralyzed and mute; by all accounts, it should have killed him, for the old man had suffered a heart attack the year before, and his body was sorely weakened. And yet Thomas had clung to life, only to perish less than a day after Lucien arrived. Could it be, he asked himself, that his father had only stayed alive for his own sake, that the old man had fought tooth and nail to remain in the land of the living until he was sure that his son had returned to him, that his people were well? It was the sort of thing Thomas would do, stubborn as he was; however he had treated his son, the old man had always been dedicated to the welfare of his people. And now he had done his duty, and ensured that on the day he passed, Lucien would be there to take up his place, to care for those people as Thomas had always tried to do.

Whether it was the loss of his father, the loss of that chance for redemption, or his own fears for the future Lucien could not say, but emotion overcame him in that moment, and he bowed his head and wept.

* * *

For perhaps a half an hour Lucien sat with his father, trying to pull himself together, and when at last he felt steady enough he rose, pressed a kiss to the old king's forehead, and went in search of Matthew. The Prime Minister had been summoned, and Lucien knew that he would have to speak to the man, sooner rather than later. The transition from one monarch to another was difficult under the best of circumstances, and their current predicament was decidedly tricky. Public sentiment was not in his favor, and news of the king's illness had not been allowed to spread. The entire kingdom would be in shock when the sun rose, and Lucien and the Prime Minister's government would need to prepare themselves to respond at once.

They were waiting for him in the sitting room, Matthew and the priest and a half-dozen more guards. The king's body would not be left unattended, even for a moment; when Lucien stepped into the sitting room two of the guards - they were the same young men who'd been stationed by the front gate when Lucien arrived the night before, he realized - went straight into the bedroom without the need for direction from their superior, as if they knew already that it was their duty to stand watch over their fallen sovereign.

"Has Sir Patrick arrived?" Lucien asked Matthew. He was weary down to his very bones, but he would not rest until he attended to business.

"A few minutes ago, sir," Matthew answered. "I can take you to him."

"Lead the way," Lucien said, gesturing with his hand for Matthew to step out in front of him. But Matthew grimaced, and Lucien realized his folly at once; no one lead the king anywhere. That was his job; the rest of them would, of necessity, have to follow.

"Right."

His father had done his best to involve young Lucien in the business of state, and he recalled from his youth the location of the counsel room where the old king preferred to meet with the Prime Minister when he came to call. His feet carried him down the thickly carpeted corridor as if by muscle memory alone, and he was glad of it. He had not seen Sir Patrick in decades, and he did not relish the prospect of spending time with the man now. But Sir Patrick had been elevated to the post of PM some six years before, and was by all accounts a well-respected man. He had done what Lucien could not, and served the realm faithfully for most of his life. He might have been a pompous, conservative old windbag, but he knew how things worked, and Lucien would need to rely on his counsel, however distasteful it might be.

Matthew followed along behind him, quiet as a shadow. Though he had not said as much Lucien rather got the sense that Matthew had decided to take the protection of the new king as his own personal charge; most of the guards Lucien had seen were quite young, and perhaps Matthew felt that they were not suited to the task. Eventually he would be assigned his own protection detail, men whose sole purpose in life was to walk behind him with grim expressions and hands resting on their sidearms; Matthew had other, more important duties he could not neglect indefinitely. For the moment, however, Lucien was rather grateful for the company.

The counsel room was rather more cozy than some of the other, more grandly appointed rooms given over to the business of running the government. It was so named for it had traditionally been the place where the sovereign's chosen solicitor held meetings, but Thomas had taken it for his own. The walls were adorned with portraits of former heads of state in full military regalia, and the gleaming polished wood table that sat in the center of the room was surrounded by no more than ten high-backed chairs. As Lucien entered he found the corpulent Sir Patrick sitting not at the head of the table but rather directly to the right of it; a symbolic choice on his part, no doubt. Mrs. Beazley was with him, a silver tea service laid out on a tray in front of her while she poured a cup for the PM.

"It will be all right, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick was saying in a kindly tone of voice, but then he caught sight of Lucien, and rose to his feet with a surprising grace for a man so large.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing his head. "Long live the King."

"Long live the King," Mrs. Beazley and Matthew echoed automatically. They had been well trained, the pair of them.

The head of the table was meant for the King, and so Lucien made his way there. Matthew took up his post by the door, leaning on his cane, and Mrs. Beazley poured one more cup of tea, placing it by his seat.

"Your Majesty," she murmured to him softly, and then she was gone, the soft swish of her skirt fading as she slipped through the door. Lucien felt a pang of loss at her departure; he would much rather have taken his tea with Mrs. Beazley than with Sir Patrick.

"Right," Lucien said, sighing as he sank into his chair. Sir Patrick did not sit, and Lucien fought the urge to roll his eyes in frustration; all this little observances of protocol grated on his nerves. He gave a negligent wave of his hand, and then reached for the sugar bowl while Sir Patrick settled back down into his seat.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said. And though Lucien knew he would be hearing that same expression many times a day for the next several months, he could not help but feel a peevish sort of loathing for the sentiment. Yes, everyone would be terribly sorry for his loss, but none of them would understand the true scope of that loss. He had lost his father, but he had also lost his own life, in a way. Everything he was, everything he had been, would be taken from him, until all that remained was the crown.

"Thank you," he said shortly. "What happens next?"

The PM's expression in response to that question was faintly chagrined, as if he did not entirely approve of Lucien's direct approach to the matter at hand. Perhaps he disapproved of Lucien's demeanor, the laxity of his posture or his lack of emotion in response to his father's death. Perhaps to Sir Patrick's eyes Lucien was being a bit flippant, but the truth was he would mourn in his heart for all the rest of his days. Lucien was not through with weeping, but he was damned if he was going to let anyone catch him while he was at it. Of all the things he had been, a student, a musician, a rake, a cad, a doctor, he remained first and foremost a soldier. An old man dying peacefully in his bed at an advanced age after a prolonged illness was hardly the worst thing he'd ever seen; Lucien had kept his head under much worse conditions. His resolve had meant the difference between life and death, not just for himself but for many others besides, and he fell back on that old habit now.

"Well," Sir Patrick said after he'd taken a moment to gather his thoughts. "Tonight a team of doctors and priests will come to collect the King's body and take him to the cathedral to prepare him for burial. Tomorrow, the palace will release an official statement, and the government will as well. We'll need to allow enough time to arrange for the arrival of various heads of state who will want to pay their respects; I imagine it will be at least a fortnight before the funeral is held. The Earl Marshal will be in charge of that ceremony, as well as the subsequent coronation. His office will draw up the plans, but of course you will have final approval. The day of the funeral will be a national holiday. Then, perhaps a fortnight or so later, we'll hold the coronation. That will be a national holiday as well. You will make two formal speeches, one to the people on the day of your coronation, and one to the houses of Parliament the following day. You may need to do so sooner, depending on the public mood."

He had not said it outright, but from his tone Lucien gathered that Sir Patrick expected the public mood to be somewhat unruly. And who could blame, them truly, when they had lost a beloved monarch and a stranger had come to rule over them? _Everyone is just a bit confused, _that's what Mrs. Beazley had told him. Confusion could turn to riots in a moment, left unchecked. Lucien's head was reeling slightly; it was rather a lot of information to take in all at once, and he had, after all, had rather a lot to drink. The lingering effects of the whiskey manifested themselves in the trembling of his hands and a terrible ache between his eyes, but he could not say whether it was whiskey or doubt that set his stomach to roiling. Probably both.

"Who makes the announcement, for the palace?" he asked.

"It will be released to the newspapers, and read over the wireless. We've not had a...transfer of power like this one since the advent of television, and the publicity office will have to make a decision regarding whether the statement will also be televised."

That was something Lucien had certainly never considered, but now that Sir Patrick had raised the specter of television he found it only added to the growing list of his concerns. He could not do as his father had done in the early days of his reign, hide out in the castle with a modicum of privacy, shielding his foreign wife and then his son from view. People would expect to _see_ him, and he would have to fit himself into an image that would meet with their approval. It was not a pleasant prospect.

"Do I need to review those statements before they're made public?"

Sir Patrick had laid out the schedule quite neatly, but Lucien still wasn't entirely sure what he was expected to _do, _and he could not simply do _nothing. _He was the King, now. The people were his responsibility, and he wanted, very much, to attend to those responsibilities - for lack of a better word - _responsibly_.

"You're under no obligation, sir," the PM told him. "The publicity office know what they're doing. But they're speaking with your voice, so if you want to go along after them, you have that right."

"Is there anything you need from me right now?"

Throughout their discussion Sir Patrick remained straight-backed and proud, ignoring his tea, but Lucien clutched his own cup as if it were the only thing holding him together, leaning back heavily against his chair. Matthew still stood sentry by the door, but Lucien hardly noticed him; the man had an uncanny ability to fade into the wallpaper that had no doubt served him well at times in the past, given his position.

"At this very moment, no. You'll have a meeting with your private secretary in the morning, and you can inform him about your decision regarding reviewing any official statements that are made. I imagine the Earl Marshal will want to speak with you in the afternoon as well. But for now, sir, all you have to do is simply _be_ the King. The rest will come in time."

It didn't seem very simple to Lucien, but as least now he had some idea what to expect. Or rather, he thought he did.


	6. Chapter 6

"Thank you, Jean," Mattie said, accepting the cup of tea Jean had offered her with eager, trembling hands. Jean smiled at her softly, sadly, fighting an impulse to reach out and run her hand over Mattie's hair as if the girl was her own daughter. The night had been a strange and distressing one for everyone in the castle, it would seem, and Jean wanted only to comfort her young friend.

Jean settled into the rickety chair next to Mattie and leaned back against it heavily, relieved to be off her feet and sipping her own cup of tea. The Prime Minister had arrived, and everyone had been so caught up in gossip and intrigue and navel-gazing and trying to steal a glimpse of their new king that poor Mattie had been quite overlooked. Jean had found her loitering in the corridor outside the King's suite, wringing her hands, and taken charge of her at once; someone had to. She was still so young, and Jean knew that she must have been shaken by her grisly discovery earlier in the evening. It wouldn't have been right to just see Mattie to her door and send her off to bed alone without first offering her some comfort, and so Jean had led her here, to a corner of the vast kitchen, to two old wooden chairs and a pot of tea.

"It was just so awful," Mattie said suddenly. Such a response was not entirely unexpected; Mattie was a nurse, but a relatively inexperienced one. She had been dispatched by the hospital under the strictest of secrecy to serve as one of four live-in nurses assigned to tend to the ailing king, in addition to a whole bevy of doctors. It was Mattie who had drawn the short straw, who had been given the task of looking in on the king in the evening, and so it was poor Mattie who had found him already departed from this life. And much as she tried to appear worldly and unflappable it would seem that losing her patient had taken Mattie quite hard.

"I'm sure it was," Jean murmured softly. She was trying to be gentle, trying to keep from offering the trite platitudes people always seemed to fall back on in times of bereavement. Death was no stranger to Jean; she had grown up poor and hungry on a farm outside the city, and she had known death from a young age. First it was chickens and cows and a horse that took lame, then her grandmother, her grandfather, her uncle, her own mother, then her father, then her husband. Death had come for all of them in its own time, and Jean carried the scars of those losses deep in her own heart. She had become accustomed to those scars, had learned how to live her life without ripping them open afresh each time the sun rose, but Mattie had the soft hands and the untried heart of a city girl. If she wanted to pursue a career in medicine she would need to develop thicker skin, but Jean knew that this was not the moment to remind her of such things.

"He was always very kind to me," Mattie continued in an unsteady voice. Yes, the old king had been kind to everyone; that was how Jean would remember him, as a stiff, somewhat formal man who nonetheless cared deeply for every single person living with his realm. "But then the Prince - the King - the new King, I mean, he came in, and oh, Jean...what are we going to do?"

That question had been weighing rather heavily on Jean's mind for the last hour or so, but though she adored Mattie she had no intention of sharing her own concerns. There would be nothing but gossip in the days ahead, people trading information like cheap wares at the market, vying with one another to be the first to reveal this or that juicy tidbit, always trying to outdo one another and spreading rumors without thought to the consequences. The new King would be the only topic anyone wanted to discuss, but Jean knew better than to let a wagging tongue put her position in jeopardy. She enjoyed this job, the home and the security it afforded her, and she would not risk it, not even for someone as interesting as their new King.

"We will carry on," she said firmly. "The hospital may ask you to come back, or the new King may keep you on. We could make use of someone with medical training on staff here. I mean, really, how many times have you patched up Charlie or Danny after some scuffle over the last few months?"

She had hoped to encourage her young friend, but Mattie did not smile as she watched Jean over the rim of her tea cup.

"I'm not talking about me, Jean," she said seriously. "He was...frightening, when I saw him earlier. He looked so angry, and he was so cross with Father Emory. I've heard so many stories-"

"They're just stories," Jean interrupted her, hoping that her firm tone would put an end to that particular line of discussion. Yes, there were many stories about young Prince Lucien. Stories about how he rowed with his father, tales of drunkenness and lechery that stretched from Edinburgh to Singapore. Jean had head them all, had heard that he was a hard man, a cruel man, a selfish man, a weak man, but she had spoken to him earlier in the night, and she had been quite surprised by what she found. He had been by turns self-deprecating and defensive, but he had been compassionate, too, and had shown an earnest desire to comport himself well in the days ahead. He had told her that he had been a soldier, and though Jean had never heard so much as a whisper to that effect she believed him. There had been a hollowness in his eyes, a world of sorrow in his voice that Jean recognized all too well. She had seen the same in Christopher's friends when they returned from the war, his friends who had not been buried on the battlefield but carried it with them in their hearts, everywhere they went.

In truth she did not know what to make of the man. A medic, a soldier, straight-backed and proud and devilishly handsome, she was somewhat inclined to like him. But he had stayed away from his home, away from his responsibilities, for more than two decades, and when she met him up on the battlements earlier in the evening he had been so drunk she could smell the whiskey on his breath from three paces away. Drunkenness and caprice she could not abide, but that boyish smile, his sincere desire to please his people, those were traits she liked very much. He was a contradiction, this new King of hers, and Jean had never been very comfortable with contradictions. She preferred matters that were clear cut, the obvious rights and wrongs laid out by her church, and she was beginning to suspect that King Lucien was the sort of man whose very soul was painted in shades of grey.

"Aren't you worried, though, Jean?" Mattie pressed her almost urgently. "We don't know anything about him, but now we have to work for him, we have to trust him, and I don't-"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," a deep voice murmured from the doorway beside them, and Jean's mouth fell open as she saw her new-made King standing there ashen-faced and forlorn. As one she and Mattie hastened to rise, and Mattie appeared so out of sorts that she lost her grip on her cup. Tea splashed down the front of her dress and the cup shattered on the floor, and as Jean looked at her tears gathered in the corners of the girl's eyes.

"Please," the King said, rushing forward at once. Without hesitation he knelt down and began to gather the shattered pieces of glass, and Jean's heart was suddenly torn between fondness for his immediate desire to help and frustration at his lack of decorum. "I was just looking for something to eat, I didn't mean to cause such a fuss."

Frustration won the battle, and it was all Jean could do to keep from stamping her foot. It was all well and good, that the King should demonstrate such a lax approach to the standards of propriety, but he was not meant to kneel before anyone, for any reason, and his lackadaisical personal behavior only made Jean feel dreadfully uncomfortable. She knew what was expected of her, but how could she comport herself with dignity when he insisted on bucking their time-honored traditions at every turn?

"Your Majesty," Jean said, somewhat tartly, as she knelt and all but yanked the shattered china out of his hands. "Please, don't go to any trouble."

At close range it suddenly occurred to Jean that his eyes were very blue, and for some reason the thought made her blush.

"Right," he said, sounding almost disappointed as he rose to his feet and tugged absently at his wrinkled shirt.

"By your leave, your Majesty," Mattie said, already stepping towards the doorway, clearly struggling to keep her distress controlled, to keep from breaking down entirely as this strange turn of events stretched her already fraying nerves beyond their limits.

"Of course," he told her, smiling softly. It was a kind smile, a warm smile, an almost fatherly smile, but Mattie did not see it for the very instant he gave his permission she turned and fled from the room.

And then Jean was, once more, alone with the King. She gathered up the rest of the ruined cup and carried the pieces gingerly to the bin, and all the while he watched her, his hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, the weight of his gaze heavy on her back.

"I'm afraid I've scarred that poor girl for life," he said. There was something hesitant, something almost desperate about the way he spoke, as if he had been casting about for something to say, some way to ease the tension that had sprung up the moment he arrived. Jean could not help but wonder if he had overheard their conversation, if he doubted their loyalty to their new King, if he was even now trying to find some way to approach the topic delicately, but as the seconds passed she began to suspect that was not so. Surely, she told herself, if he had overheard them he would have said something.

"She's had a very difficult evening," Jean told him evenly, wiping her hands on her skirt and turning to face him. "She's usually much more composed."

"Oh, I don't know," the King mused, "I think I just have that sort of effect on people. The moment I enter a room, everyone seems to suddenly remember pressing business elsewhere."

That little quip put Jean in rather a difficult spot, for in truth she had been just about to make her excuses and leave him, and now she could see no way to do so gracefully. If she could not leave, then she supposed the next best thing would be to find some occupation for herself.

"You're hungry," she reminded him, businesslike and determined. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll see if I can find something for you."

The kitchen was not strictly speaking under Jean's purview, but she had started her tenure in the castle as a cook, and she knew her way around the place. The kitchen staff were all in bed, and would stay there until about 4:00 a.m., when the first of them would begin to trickle in to make a start on baking bread for the day. There were a few hours yet when the kitchen would be still and quiet, and this much she knew she could do, could rummage through the pantry and the refrigerators and make something for him to eat. Drinking and grieving and affairs of state were a heavy combination, and she was not surprised he'd worked up an appetite.

But he waved her off, looking almost sheepish. "Oh, I'm sure there are some biscuits around here somewhere," he said. "Please don't trouble yourself."

That request was a bridge too far, for Jean. So far this evening she had been accosted in a moment of quiet contemplation, had been questioned on personal matters by the man who was now her King, had watched as her entire world was turned upside down, had been comforted by Sir Patrick Tyneman of all people, had shouldered Mattie's burdens as her own. Those bizarre turns of events she could stomach, but she could not - _would _not - stand idly by while the King himself went rummaging through the kitchen in search of biscuits.

"Please, sir," she ground out through clenched teeth. "Please, just...sit. Please."

For a moment she thought he might protest, but then he raised his hands as if in defeat, and sank into the chair Mattie had so recently vacated, and Jean breathed a sigh of relief at his capitulation. Order had been restored, in some small way.

"Thank you," she told him sincerely. And then she turned, and went off in search of biscuits and a fresh cup of tea for the King.


	7. Chapter 7

"There we are," Jean said, carefully placing a small plate of biscuits and a fresh cup of tea on the end of the worktop where the King sat, lounging in his chair, watching her with eyes soft and blue and terribly sad. It was very, very late, and for once the halls beyond the kitchen were quiet; death sat heavy on that place, and though there were pockets of activity throughout the castle for the most part such efforts were undertaken in whispers, as if the living feared to speak too loudly, and draw the attention of whatever malevolent spirit stalked the corridors. Before now Jean had rather thought she ought to come up with some excuse to depart, to sneak off to her bed and leave the drunken King to his own devices, but he seemed to be steadier now than he had been before, and his face was pale and drawn, and Jean had been too long in the business of looking after people to simply abandon him when he seemed so in need of care.

"You will join me, won't you?" he asked her. His voice was low and worn, as she knew his very soul must be, and though his request was most improper, given the hour and the difference in their stations and their lack of a chaperone, there was nothing untoward in his expression, and Jean had already decided that she ought to stay, anyway.

"All right," she agreed, settling herself down in the chair beside him and reaching for her own now tepid cup of tea.

"Have a biscuit," he added quickly, reaching for the plate and offering it to her. There was something eager, almost boyish about the gesture; she couldn't quite get the measure of this man, who could be taciturn and complaisant both, who held tradition in disdain and yet had just inherited the most traditionally powerful position in the whole realm. She was beginning to suspect that she might never grow accustomed to him at all.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," she demurred, but he looked so crestfallen that her heart could not bear it, and she changed course at once. "Maybe just the one," she amended, reaching for a ginger biscuit and trying not to blush at the smile that bloomed across his face. That smile was short lived, however, and a somewhat uncomfortable silence settled over them. Under normal circumstances Jean would be required to hold her tongue and not speak except to answer some question from him, but he had proven already that he did not stand on ceremony, and the slump of his shoulders as his burdens began to weigh him down once more told her that he was not likely to speak to her directly again for quite some time. It would fall to her, then, to accept that silence, or break it.

"I know it doesn't make much of a difference," she ventured after a time, "but I am sorry for your loss."

He did not immediately answer; he finished off the biscuit he held in two quick bites, and then washed it down with a long sip of tea. Carefully he placed his cup on the worktop and then leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing his arms over his chest. There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were staring not into the dying embers in the fireplace on the opposite wall, but into the dim recesses of the distant past.

"You'll think it cruel," he said in a tone that was thick with self-loathing, "but I won't miss the man." He was right; the words did seem to cruel to Jean, when the old King had only died a bare few hours before, when he had always been so kind to Jean, but she held her tongue and listened, anyway. "I can't remember the last time we spoke. Everyone here was so fond of him, but he was always so...cold, with me. I've often thought I reminded him of everything he hated about himself."

He said it so matter-of-factly that Jean's heart went out to him at once, and she could think of no possible response. She did not know her new King; she had not been in the castle when he was young, and though gossip was rampant she did not know the truth of how things had been for him, in his youth. She had no choice but to continue to listen, and so she did.

"My mother was French, you know." Of course she knew, everyone did. "It caused a bit of a scandal, at the time. He came home with this foreign bride, a commoner, this woman who seemed so strange to his people. But he loved her, to the point of madness. She had a hard labor, with me. She very nearly died. And despite the custom of the time my father was present. I found out about this later, but apparently all that blood, the screaming, it terrified him." That much Jean could understand; she'd borne two children herself, and she knew how dire that struggle could be. "My mother thought she was dying, and she begged him to name me Lucien. A French name. As the Crown Prince I should have had a good Christian name, maybe Thomas like my father, but she wanted me to have a French name, and in that moment my father would have done anything for her. And so my name is Lucien. That was my first mistake, you see. Every time he looked at me, he saw his own weakness. He couldn't marry a proper girl from a noble house, couldn't fill the nursery with enough heirs to make Sir Patrick happy, couldn't command obedience from his wife or his son. He studied medicine, too, did you know that?"

Jean just shook her head; he wasn't looking at her, and it didn't seem as if he really wanted her to answer, any way.

"He put it aside when he married my mother and brought her back to this place. He told me so in a letter, once. I can still remember every word of it; _it's time for you to be a man and put aside this hobby, as I did. _I was a commissioned officer in the Army, sworn to protect, to help people, and he called it a hobby! I was mortified, of course. If I'd known he'd ever had any interest in medicine I never would have pursued it myself." He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "So you see? No matter how hard I tried to distance myself from him, to be own man, I made all the same mistakes he did, and he hated me for it. I fell in love with the wrong girl, and I lost her." _What's this? _Jean wondered, alarmed and intrigued by equal measure, but he bulled straight through, and she did not dare give voice to her many questions. "I studied medicine, but I wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't come home, wouldn't do the proper thing. I wanted to be as far away from this place as I possibly could. I suppose that sounds strange to you."

This time he did look at her, his eyes beseeching, though Jean could not say for certain what it was he was asking of her. Did he want pity, or absolution? Did he want her to agree with him, to tell him he had done wrong, that his father was right to chastise him? She did not know what he wanted, and so she could only speak the truth.

"May I speak freely, sir?" she asked carefully. It was dangerous, very dangerous, to reveal too much personal information to a person in a position of authority, and even if he had been no more than a gardener Jean was still a private sort of person, and did not readily share her history with anyone else. But he had shared so much with her, just now, and his heart was clearly aching, and she did not want to leave him alone with such grief.

"Of course," he answered at once. "Please do."

She took a very deep breath, and then spoke before she could think better of it. "I grew up on a farm, far outside the city. I went to school until I - until I was about thirteen." When Jean was young most girls in the rural communities of their kingdom left school when they reached puberty, but Jean was not about to share that particular piece of information with him. "I went straight to work, but all I wanted was to go back to school. I loved to read. The parish priest had a library, and he was constantly bringing in new books. Every book I read showed me that there was a world outside our farm, a place full of dreams, where anything could happen. And I grew to hate the farm. Truly, I did. The work was hot and hard and we were hungry. My father was...he was not a kind man, and my mother was ill. I couldn't wait to leave."

"But you did," he pointed out. "You're here now." He seemed almost defensive, and Jean fancied she could hear the words he had not said; _it's not the same. You escaped your past, but I will never be free of mine. _

She smiled at him sadly. "I am now," she said, "but I haven't always been. As I said, when I was young I could not wait to leave the farm. And then I met my husband. I was nineteen when we married, and we moved onto a farm of our own." There was more to that story of course, but Jean would cut out her own tongue before she told him all of it. Understanding was dawning in his eyes, and he sat as still and quiet now as she had done while he spoke. She had not expected such consideration from him, and could not remember a time when any noble person had ever listened to her so closely, so courteously. "We had two children, and I lived the next ten years of my life there, scratching out a living in the dirt, just like my parents."

_You see? _She wanted to say. _I don't think it strange at all, that you should try to run from your upbringing. You are not the only one cursed by birth. _There didn't seem to be any need to hammer her point home, however; her new King was a clever man, and his expression told her that he had heard her, and understood her.

"How did you end up here, Mrs. Beazley?" He asked after a moment. As she spoke his posture had changed; he was no longer leaning back, arms wrapped around his chest as if to protect himself from the ghosts of his past. He was leaning forward, now, his forearms resting on his knees, and he was looking right at her, with eyes that seemed to peer into her very heart.

"My husband died," she said simply. "I couldn't keep up the farm. I needed work. I came to the city, and I was hired here as a cook. I've been here ever since."

* * *

The night had been a long and strange one, and it was growing stranger by the second, Lucien thought as he looked at her. He had not hoped to find a friend, here at the end of life as he knew it, and yet Mrs. Beazley had been nothing but kind to him, had listened to him respectfully and then offered him her own tale, and a much-needed bit of perspective. It was easy for him to get lost in his own bitterness, in angry musings on every freedom that had just been snatched away from him, but the truth was he had been lucky, in many respects. Thomas had never been a particularly warm man, but he had never struck his son, and the hitch in Mrs. Beazley's voice when she spoke of her own father - _he was...he was not a kind man - _had carried with it the sorrow of a child who had fallen more than once beneath a heavy fist. He had never been hungry, had never been denied the chance to receive a full education, had not married so young, had not been left alone with two children to raise and no way to feed them. He had been held captive by the Japanese, had faced horror there, but he had survived, unlike Mrs. Beazley's husband. He had lost his wife and child, but he had always had a home to return to if he wished, an opulent place where his every need would be met, while the loss of her husband had left Mrs. Beazley no choice but to leave her own home and start over in a new place.

And she had not rebuked him, had not pointed any of this out herself, had simply told her own story, and let him draw his own conclusions. She had, very gently, reminded him that he was not the only person to ever suffer an indignity, that he was not the only person who longed to run from their upbringing and yet found themselves imprisoned by it. But Mrs. Beazley had made a new life for herself, and he supposed there was some hope to be found in that portion of her tale; she had found a way to move on with her life, and perhaps, one day, he would as well.

"Thank you," he said, wondering if she knew what exactly it was he was thanking her for. He wanted to tell her, to tell her that he was grateful for her kindness, for her honesty, for her willingness to share with him, her willingness to speak to him to as a man and not as a King. He wanted to tell her that he was grateful for her beautiful smile, and the delicate grace of her hands as they cradled her teacup. He wanted to tell her that he was grateful to her for giving him hope.

She only smiled at him, grey eyes sparkling, and a thousand questions leapt to his mind as he looked at her. He wanted to know about her children, their names and ages, wanted to know where they were now, wanted to know if she had friends, if she still read so voraciously, if she shared any of his opinions on literature or art. He wanted to know her husband's name, where the man had served, if they had ever stood upon the same blood-soaked piece of earth. He wanted to know if her hand would be soft and warm if he wrapped it in his own.

"It's late, your Majesty," she told him gently. He wondered for a moment if she was only trying to get rid of him, but he thought better of it almost at once. There was nothing but warmth in her expression, nothing but kindness, a genuine concern for his well-being, and his battered heart was revived by the knowledge that there was at least one person in the castle who cared for him. Well, perhaps there were two; Matthew was a friend to him still, and he knew he would rely on him heavily in the days ahead. But Matthew's face wasn't nearly as pretty as Mrs. Beazley's. "You should try to get some rest."

"And you, Mrs. Beazley," he said.

She rose from her chair, and took the cup from his hands with the deft command of a mother much used to cleaning up after her children. And as she did he tried to hide his smile, for she had just committed a grievous breach of protocol, taking his cup from his hand without being asked, but she had done it seemingly without thinking, and he was glad to see she had already grown somewhat more comfortable around him.

"I'll put these things away," she said, suddenly businesslike.

"Right," he agreed. It would do no good to try to stop her, he knew that already. "Sleep well, Mrs. Beazley."

She gave him a smile and a little nod, and he left her to tidy up the remnants of their late night snack, his feet carrying him up to his room without need of direction from his thoughts, which were at present occupied almost entirely by _her. _


	8. Chapter 8

_18 October 1958_

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Lucien said, shifting uncomfortably as he knelt on the hard bench in the confessional booth. His hands were trembling, and if the old priest could have seen through the screen that separated them he undoubtedly would have noticed that his new king's eyes were a little wild. Lucien could not abide tight spaces, and this one carried with it the added grief of isolation and guilt, the reminder of the restraints and the comforts of the faith that had chafed him, abandoned him, the faith he had turned his back on so long before.

"It has been, oh, about twenty years since my last confession." Lucien rubbed absently at his beard as he tried to do the maths; he had taken confession in Singapore, he was sure, before the Japanese arrived, but he could not say precisely when.

To his credit, the priest did not balk or bluster at that particular revelation. Lucien could not see the man, did not know to whom he spoke, but he had requested, quite bluntly, that his confession not be heard by Father Emory, the stern-faced man who had been praying over his father's bedside the night that he died, the night that Lucien's whole world had shattered. He did not know this Father Emory well, but he knew that he did not care for the man's hard, judgemental eyes, or the way he had insolently lingered in that place after Lucien asked him to go. It might have been too much to hope that he might get along with any priest, but the voice that drifted to him through the screen was almost kindly as the priest gave his customary response.

"What sins have you committed, my son?"

Lucien did not laugh at the absurdity of the question, but it was a very near thing. He wanted nothing so much as to flee, rise to his feet and race out of the confessional, out of the cathedral, out into the autumn sunshine where he could breathe deeply and stretch out his arms. The booth was small, and he felt like a giant stuffed into a breadbox, felt his shoulders and hips brushing against the wood of his enclosure everytime he shifted. His knees ached, and his heart ached, and he did not think he would find comfort in this place. And yet, he had no choice. Duty compelled him to kneel, to offer his sins and his contrition to the priest while the palace guards kept watch outside.

The Earl Marshal and his office had arranged the whole affair, with almost military precision. Calls had been made and lodging arranged for the various visiting dignitaries. Rites and rituals quite beyond Lucien's understanding had been undertaken deep within the belly of the cathedral, and all the kingdom had been plunged into mourning. The schedule for the day had been laid out before him; a maid brought him breakfast in his suite, and then his valet arrived and helped to fasten him into his new black suit. The motorcade had driven him here to the cathedral - which had been positively brimming with security - and Matthew had limped beside him as he made his way across the polished marble floor to the confessional. Thirty minutes had been allocated to him, to unburden himself to the priest, and then he would be escorted away, and the cathedral doors would be opened. And then, at last, his father would be laid to rest, with all the world looking on.

"My sins are too many and too varied to mention," Lucien told him wryly. "To be perfectly honest with you, Father, I'm not interested in making confession. I've only come here to keep the peace, as it were."

There was a moment's silence as the priest processed those words, and Lucien began to doubt the wisdom of his radical honesty. No matter how he might disdain the church, how he might doubt its teachings, he could not quite bring himself to spit in the face of the traditions that had formed the backbone of his upbringing. He had crossed himself when he reached the font, and he would not lie to a priest while kneeling in the confessional. Very few of his childhood superstitions still held sway over him, but while he was not entirely certain that he would be struck by lightning on the spot for having made such a transgression, he was not willing to risk it.

"You have chosen to bow to tradition, my son?" the priest asked him.

_In more ways than one, _Lucien thought.

"The Earl Marshal told me it's customary, under the circumstances. And I'd rather not start a fight with him, so early in my tenure."

He had rather deliberately refrained from using the word _reign; _he did not like to think of himself lording over other people, _ruling _them, though he knew full well that would be precisely his task, for all the rest of his days. He had been back home for just over a fortnight, and he had not yet grown accustomed to the weight of that shackle around his neck.

"I think perhaps that was a piece of wisdom on your part," the priest told him. "The Earl Marshal is a good friend to have. And if you will not confess, perhaps I might still provide some service to you, while we wait for the time to pass."

Lucien made a mental note to ask for the priest's name later; he found himself warming to the man, despite the circumstances. He was grateful for such an offer, for his heart was full to bursting with questions, and there seemed to be no one who could answer him.

"Did you counsel my father?"

"I spoke with your father often," the priest said evenly. "It is forbidden to me to reveal the nature of those conversations, of course."

"Of course." Secrets upon secrets; such was the nature of the church, and of the nobility. Still, he found the thought of sharing his burdens with someone who was sworn to keep his secrets somewhat comforting. "Perhaps you could counsel me as well, then."

"What troubles you, my son?"

This time Lucien did laugh, just a little; it would take significantly more than half an hour for him to answer that question in full. It had been asked in good faith, however, and he wanted to make the best use of the time he had been given.

"I'm angry, father," he admitted. "I never wanted to be king."

Those were dangerous words to speak aloud, even to a priest, and Lucien knew it. He needed to say them, however, needed to be honest with himself, and though his sorrow lingered he felt a little bit lighter for having made his confession. After a fashion.

"You don't have to be," the priest pointed out. "No man is without choices in this life. It's just that some of those choices are more difficult than others."

"There is no choice here, father. If I abdicate the crown there will be trouble. There is no one else in my family who can take this burden from me, and without a clear successor there will be violence. I can't do that to our people."

"It seems to me, then, that you have been faced with a choice, and you have made it. You have chosen to set aside your own selfish desires for the good of the realm. Such concern for your people is a good quality in a king."

Lucien chewed on that for a moment. All his life he had disappointed his father, had felt the old man's eyes watching him, even from the other side of the world, weighing him and finding him unworthy of the duty that would be passed to him in time. Thomas had not believed that Lucien would make a good king, and over the years those doubts had bloomed within Lucien's own heart like some terrible, choking weed, and the old priest had hit upon those doubts at once. Yes, Lucien was unsure whether he had the necessary qualities to lead his people well, to protect them, to do right by them, but the old priest seemed to think he'd get along just fine. It was nice to have someone in his corner, but still Lucien remained unsure.

"What else angers you, my son?"

As a small boy Lucien had been convinced that priests could read his mind, that they could with a single look at his face determine his intentions and judge him for them accordingly. It was an uncomfortable thought, but one he could not shake, just now.

"I have lost a great deal," he said carefully. He had lost his family, his wife, his daughter, his dearest friend, had lost his freedom, had lost his hope, lost his faith, and the shocking total of those losses had left a bitter taste in his mouth, particularly now, when he felt himself so entirely alone and out of control of his life.

"So must we all, from time to time."

Lucien gritted his teeth, biting back hateful words; he wanted to point out that the priest had voluntarily taken an oath of chastity, forsworn love and family in favor of devotion to his God. What could such a man know about the terrible, howling loss that roared through Lucien's chest each time he thought of his wife and child, swallowed by the boundless cruelty of the sea?

"Your grief will have its place, my son," the priest continued. "The story of your life is not yet complete. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and we cannot hope to understand his plan in full. We are all put here on this earth for a purpose, and I think you have not yet achieved yours."

Strangely, as the priest spoke Lucien found his thoughts drifting to Mrs. Beazley. _Jean_, Matthew had called her, though Lucien had been trying rather hard to forget that, knowing that he would never be allowed the familiarity of calling her by her given name. She had suffered much, too, he knew now, had endured a difficult childhood, a difficult life, lost her husband just as he had lost Mei Lin. And yet still she could smile at him, could speak to him softly, could rise each day and do her duty with grace, without complaint. Mrs. Beazley had made room in her heart for her grief, rather than allowing herself to be consumed by it; perhaps it was time for Lucien to do the same. Perhaps it was time for him to forgive his father, to forgive himself, and set his eyes on the future. Mrs. Beazley had made a new life for herself, and found some happiness in it; perhaps, in time, Lucien would as well.

"Maybe you could put in a good word for me, Father," he said. Lucien no longer believed in God, but he was open to accepting help from any quarter, at present.

"You could say a prayer yourself," the priest pointed out. "You are here already. You could make your confession, and unburden yourself to God, and ask him to guide you through this trial."

"God stopped listening to my prayers a long time ago," Lucien told him, thoughts of Mrs. Beazley forgotten in favor of the sudden wash of memories, dark and black. The stink of the camp, the smoke rising off the smoldering ruins of the city that had been his home, the sweltering, unbearable isolation of the too-small cell where he'd dangled from the edge of his own sanity for over a month. He had prayed to God, then, but no aid had come, and he had long since stopped believing that it would.

"Just because you do not receive the answer you want does not mean that no answer was given. Perhaps it is you who has stopped listening, my son."

Those words echoed through Lucien's mind throughout the rest of that interminable day. The old priest had given him much to think about.

* * *

"He looks quite handsome, doesn't he?" Mattie whispered.

Jean shushed her, appalled by Mattie's brash words and her own private agreement in almost equal measure. They were gathered, along with most of the staff, around the small television in Matthew's office. Very few of the staff had their own televisions, but there was one here, and Matthew had - in an unusual display of camaraderie - given them permission to converge here in his absence, to watch as the old king was laid to rest, and the new one was revealed to the kingdom for the first time. Oh, everyone who stood with her in that place had met the new king, come to recognize him, if not become acquainted with him, but their friends and neighbors beyond the castle wall had not seen hide nor hair of the man for the last twenty years.

And _oh, _but he did look handsome. The cameraman had locked upon the new king as he stood tall and proud at the top of the cathedral steps, speaking to some visiting dignitary while the rest of the funeral goers queued up behind them, eager to pay their respects, eager to stand - if only for a moment - in the new king's shadow. His beard had been neatly trimmed and his hair carefully styled, and he wore a dark suit, one that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the span of his chest, one that made him look ten feet tall and powerful, as he was, as he should be. Jean watched him, felt the jostling of arms and legs as cooks and guards and maids all shifted and swayed around her, speaking quietly to one another, vying for a good position in front of the telly. She watched him, and thought of the quiet conversation they'd had in the kitchen a fortnight before, thought of the last time she'd spoken to him, thought of how desolate he had seemed. This would be a difficult day for him, of that she was certain; it was never easy for anyone to lay a parent to rest, and their new king would have it harder than most, given his long estrangement from his father, given the responsibility he had inherited. _Poor Lucien, _she thought, but almost immediately her cheeks flushed scarlet and she berated herself for even thinking such a thing; he was not _Lucien, _could not ever be _Lucien, _not to her. He was _your Majesty, _or _sir, _and that was that.

"Right, you lot," she said as the newscaster's voice droned on and on, and Lucien - _the king - _made his way down the cathedral steps towards his waiting car. "Back to work, then. All those people are coming this way, and they'll be hungry when they get here."

There was some grumbling but no outright protest; they all knew that she was right, and they respected her too much to speak to her unkindly. They trooped out from that place, all of them well aware of their duties, their role, their designated place in the order of things. Every man and woman within that castle had their own part to play, their own position to fill, and Jean was no different. As she walked along Mattie reached out and took Jean's arm, smiling winsomely beneath the warm autumn sunshine, and Jean let her, patted her young friend's hand and tried to forget the way her heart had yearned, watching as her king stood straight-backed and handsome beneath that same sun. Jean knew her place, and she would be happy in it. She had no other choice.


	9. Chapter 9

_3 November 1958_

"Is that everything, then?" Lucien asked, trying to hide his dismay at the pile of files in front of him. He'd always known that the life of a king was one devoted almost entirely to minutiae, but he had not known before now just how much of that minutiae was composed of stacks and stacks of paper. International news reports, policy updates, intelligence briefings; a wealth of information sat on his desk, couched in the most onerous turn of phrase. Lucien had half a mind to issue a royal decree that all matters requiring his personal attention should be presented to him in the form of a single paragraph summation, but even in his frustration he knew such a thing would be folly. Running a kingdom was a complicated business, and such attempts to simplify it would only result in a thorough misunderstanding, further down the line. The issues before him required nuance, subtlety; to distill them for the sake of brevity would be to butcher them beyond all recognition.

"There is one more item we need to discuss," Sir Patrick said, frowning. It was not the answer Lucien had been hoping for, but he leaned forward regardless, prepared to accept one last file to add to his stack of assigned reading for the evening. To his surprise, however, Sir Patrick shook his head.

"This one isn't written down, sir."

For the first time all afternoon, Lucien felt interested in what his crotchety Prime Minister had to say.

"I'm afraid this is a...delicate subject, and while I am hesitant to raise it, I'm afraid it simply can't wait any longer."

"Go on, then," Lucien said. He settled himself more firmly in his chair, leaning back while Sir Patrick began, almost, to fidget. Only almost; Sir Patrick was the sort of man who commanded respect, whose very being exuded a sort of latent power, not the physical might of a brawler or an athlete but the cultivated, affluent power of a man who was very wealthy, whose entire family was very wealthy and had been since time immemorial. It was the power of a man who knew that everyone and everything in the world was beneath him. Such a man did not fidget, but when faced with the one person in the kingdom who could outmatch him, he clearly felt himself a bit out of step.

"I'm afraid it's the matter of succession, sir," Sir Patrick told him, and Lucien felt his heart sink like lead in his chest. Yes, that was a very delicate matter indeed, and one Lucien had no interest in discussing, not now, not ever. He forced himself to remain silent, however, for Sir Patrick's expression was pained, as if he could sense Lucien's discontent, and yet had committed himself to soldier on. He had a duty to fulfill, and Lucien knew that it was _his _duty to let him.

"As you're aware, the next in line to the throne, after yourself, is your Aunt Dorothy, who is in ill health, and convalescing in a sanatorium on the coast. She is not expected to live out the year."

While obviously Lucien was aware of Dorothy's place in the line of succession he had not realized that her illness was so far advanced. He felt only the slightest pang of sympathy for her, however; he had not seen her since the day of his mother's funeral, and he could still hear the echo of his father shouting angrily at her, condemning her for the way that she and his brothers - both of whom were now deceased - had spurned Thomas and his foreign wife. Lucien knew nothing else about the woman but for years that had seemed to him knowledge enough; he had adored his _maman_, and any person who could have been cruel to her was a person he did not want to know.

"Dorothy's only living heir is your cousin Catherine, who is...well...she's quite mad, sir."

This, too, Lucien knew already, but it was rather bleak, having the sum total of his family laid out like that. In centuries past the royal family had been a vast, sprawling beast, but the last few generations had suffered mightily. His father had been the eldest of four; the next brother, Henry, had died as a young man, thrown from a horse. The next after him was Lawrence, an irascible man who had refused to take a wife - for reasons no one knew, though there was much speculation - and perished in the war. And then there was Dorothy, who had wed and yet borne only one child. Her daughter, Marie, had died giving birth to Catherine. And Lucien had neither brother nor sister, had known from the very beginning of his life that the weight of the kingdom rested on his shoulders, and his alone.

"There are of course various other cousins, but the relations are rather distant and convoluted, and there is some disagreement about which of them should fall in line behind Catherine."

"Surely there's a chart or something somewhere," Lucien quipped, but Sir Patrick did not smile.

"There is," he said grimly. "Technically speaking, the next in line is your cousin Edward. You may not recall the man-" he was right, Lucien didn't recognize the name - "but he was rather active in politics here during the war. He was a great sympathizer of King Edward VIII, and has been the Duke's frequent guest in France following the war."

Lucien paled at those words; Sir Patrick had no need to explain his meaning, for Lucien had, after all, served with the British army during the war. He knew precisely what sort of man King Edward was - or was rumored to be - and precisely where the man's sympathies lay. Those sympathies had not been with the Allies. The thought that his own kingdom's throne might pass to a man who had supported - or at least not openly opposed - the Axis powers was an appalling one.

"As you can see, there are those of us who would really rather the throne not fall to him. I'm afraid to say, however, that your other cousins are not much better."

Lucien scrubbed absently at his beard, trying to gather his thoughts. He had a fair idea of what Sir Patrick was getting at, and he was trying to remind himself to be patient, not to snap, not to overplay his hand with a man he did not entirely trust. It would not do to pitch a fit now, to shriek and howl his discontent, to rage against the cards that had been dealt to him; he was the _king, _now, and he knew what that meant. _You must be the man they need you to be. Not the man that you are._

"There are rumors that many of these cousins and their supporters feel you are not the best fit for the crown."

_That_ was not at all what Lucien was expecting Sir Patrick to say, and he sat in silence, aghast at the very thought.

"Even you must acknowledge, sir, that you have spent more time away from your country than in it, and your mother was a foreigner. There are some more...conservative elements in this kingdom who don't approve. And various factions of them have allied themselves to one cousin or another. There have already been three attempts on your life, as far as we're aware. If you die without a direct heir, chaos is unavoidable. The intelligence chaps are already calling it _the war of the cousins." _

_Three attempts on your life…_

"Bloody hell," Lucien said, stunned almost beyond the capacity for speech. He had known that his investiture would be a bit bumpy, but he had never, not even for a moment, considered that his own people might want to _kill _him, for the crime of having been born to the wrong woman, for having tried to make himself into his own man. "I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that I'm still breathing?"

Sir Patrick did not smile, but it was a very near thing. "Our intelligence service expanded greatly during the war. They're no MI-5, but they do all right. They managed to intercept and put a stop to the various plots they've been able to uncover. That doesn't mean that the threat has been neutralized entirely."

"What do I do, then?" Lucien asked. "Can I name a successor and put a stop to this?"

Sir Patrick shook his head. "I'm afraid that wouldn't solve the problem, sir. There's still the matter of that pesky chart. If you chose to elevate someone further down the line, or to introduce someone else entirely, their authority would be flimsy at best, and conflict would continue. Our best course of action, sir, is to keep you alive for as long as possible, endear you to the people as much as possible, and provide an heir from your direct line."

_Have to give it to him, _Lucien thought bleakly, _the man knows how to turn a phrase. _What Sir Patrick meant, of course, was _you need to behave yourself, and have a child or seven as soon as you possibly can. _He had couched that intent in the subtlest of words, but it remained clear. And he had, however unknowingly, placed Lucien in a rather difficult position. No one, not even Matthew, knew of Lucien's wife and child. No one knew that he'd _had_ an heir, once, a little girl he had loved with his whole heart, a little girl who had been the very center of his world. A little girl who had been lost to the sea, as far as Lucien knew. The many years he'd spent searching, the hundreds of letters he'd exchanged with private investigators trying to discover just what had become of his family was among his most closely guarded secrets. What Sir Patrick asked of him now was unthinkable; to start a new family he would have to declare the old one dead and gone for good, and while rationally he knew that his wife and child had likely perished, a stubborn part of his heart reminded him that he had never discovered the truth for a certainty. Aside from his own emotional reasons for objecting to Sir Patrick's delicate proposal, there was a grim practicality at play; Lucien did not know for sure what had become of his family, and he could not imagine what sort of havoc it might play if he remarried and had children, only to discover that Li and Mei Lin were in fact alive, and he had become an accidental bigamist.

"You've been alone for a long time, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said carefully. "I understand it might seem distasteful at first, but surely if you give it some thought you might realize that it could be a benefit to you, to have a wife and a family. There are any number of suitable girls-"

"I will not take some child bride to appease your sense of duty," Lucien cut him off sharply.

Sir Patrick grimaced, and ran a tired hand over his face. He looked, Lucien thought, rather like a man who had grown weary of dealing with a particularly difficult child. That did nothing to lessen Lucien's anger, however; _suitable girls, indeed! _

"Perhaps I misspoke," Sir Patrick said evenly. "_Girls _was not the right word. You need only find a woman young and healthy enough to bear at least one child. There are many..._ladies_ of noble houses, in their late twenties and thirties, who could provide the necessary services while also being pleasant company for Your Majesty."

_The necessary services!_ Lucien's mind rebelled at those words, furious at the very thought. To keep from shouting at the man Lucien rose to his feet and began to pace, smoothing his hand over the back of his head and trying to keep a tight rein on his tongue. He could not recall having been quite so angry at anyone in his life, save for his father. But it wasn't Sir Patrick's fault, of course it wasn't; the man was only the messenger, after all. Lucien had nothing and no one but cruel fate to blame for his current predicament.

"There's a problem with your plan, Patrick," he said, dropping the _Sir, _mostly because he had grown weary of courtesy. "I already have a wife and child."

Patrick gawped at him for a moment, lips opening and closing like a catfish drawn out from the depths. It was not often Sir Patrick was left on the back foot, but Lucien had just shocked the man to the core. It would have been quite amusing to see, had Lucien's heart not been in a riot. "But, sir, no one-"

"No one knew," Lucien said. "I met a girl - a young woman - while I lived in Singapore. We married in secret, and had a child. A daughter."

_Li, _sweet Li, bright and beautiful, the sun at the center of her father's universe, ripped away from him too soon.

"Where on earth have you been hiding them, sir?" Patrick demanded.

Lucien smiled sadly. "I wish I knew."

Taking a very deep breath he settled himself in his chair, and laid the whole story out for Patrick. How he and Derek had arranged things with the local parish priest, how Mei Lin's family had agreed to keep their secret until Lucien's time in the army was through and he and Mei Lin could return to his homeland, how the Japanese had come, how he had lost them. Lost, but not for a certainty, not yet.

"This complicates matters somewhat," Patrick said wryly. Lucien was rather inclined to agree with him. But then his mind began to turn, and latched onto a new idea. It came to him out of the blue, struck him hard and fast as lightning, and gave birth to a sudden swell of hope such as he had not known for many years.

"How about this, then?" Lucien suggested. "Let's put our intelligence service to the test. If they're worth their salt, perhaps they could do what all those private investigators couldn't. Have them search for my family. If they can find my wife and child, then you will have this matter of succession sorted, and my eternal gratitude. If they find that my family has been...lost, then I will do as you say."

It was difficult to voice those words, but Lucien knew that he must. The only thing that had stopped him from spurning the crown and returning to the life he'd made for himself was a desire for peace in his kingdom. If a wife and child were required to keep such a peace, Lucien knew it was a price he must pay. But _oh, _if his family could be returned to him, if the last sixteen years of heartbreak could be turned into the transcendent joy of such a reunion, he would know then that his struggles, his sacrifices had been worth it. To hold his child again, he would trade the very world.

"Agreed," Sir Patrick said solemnly. "Now, tell me again, slowly this time. When were they last seen?"


	10. Chapter 10

_3 November 1958_

That night Lucien couldn't sleep. For a time he sat at the desk in his suite - still his old suite of rooms, as he had not yet found the fortitude to move himself into the rooms that had once belonged to his father - with a glass of whiskey in one hand, flitting aimlessly through the pile of paper Sir Patrick had left for his review. Not one single word of those reports and memos registered in his mind; his thoughts were consumed utterly by the bargain he'd struck with the Prime Minister.

_If they find that my family has been...lost, then I will do as you say. _

There had been no other way, he knew. It was always something for something; no aid came without price. The kingdom's security services would scour the globe for his wife and child, and for that he gave thanks, but he had traded his own future in the bargain. Perhaps those intelligence officers could do what a pile of private investigators could not, and find the family he had dreamed of for the last twenty years, the family he had lost. But if they were found, Lucien would have to bring Mei Lin and Li back to this place, would have to do to Li what his own father had done to him, uproot her from the life she had built for herself and thrust her into the unfamiliar world of royalty. His heart would rejoice, he knew, but he did not know his daughter, now, the woman she had become, and he worried for her desperately, worried that she would not accept him, would not want him or the life he offered her. And if it was discovered that Mei Lin and Li were in fact lost to the sea, Lucien would have to shackle himself to another, to take a bride Sir Patrick deemed acceptable and make a new family, and love would not play into that bargain. The very proposition was distasteful, but Lucien had agreed despite his reservations, for he would trade his very soul just to know, for a certainty, what had become of his girls.

Idly he reached for his pocket, and then frowned as he realized two things; first, that as king he no longer carried a wallet, and second that even if his wallet _had _been in his pocket the little picture of his family he carried there would not be in it, for he had handed it over to Sir Patrick. It was one of only a few pieces of evidence that still existed to show that Lucien had ever had any family at all, and Sir Patrick had been certain it would aid the officers in their search. No doubt the man was right, but Lucien felt uneasy without that photograph in his pocket. The past had become the stuff of legend to him, and what few mementos he had to remind himself of the beautiful days he'd spent in Singapore before the war were more precious to him than gold.

Drinking and brooding brought him no peace, and so Lucien heaved himself to his feet, taking his heavy grey coat from the back of his wardrobe before letting his feet guide him toward the stairs. It was a journey he had undertaken countless times before, and his feet knew the way, and so he let his thoughts wander as he emerged into the chill of the night. Up on the battlements the air was crisp and cool, the darkness somehow comforting. He turned to the right, just as he had done a month before, dragging his hand along the well worn stone as he walked. The occasional guard passed him by; each time it happened the lad in question would stop and salute, and Lucien would speak to him softly, and then the King would move on, and the guard would go once more about his business. Those interruptions were few and far between, and Lucien did not trouble himself with them.

_What would she look like now? _He asked himself as he walked. Li, his darling little girl, would be twenty years old, now. No longer a child with ribbons in his hair, no longer so small that he could easily scoop her up and hold her close. She had favored her mother from the moment she was born; if Lucien was ever blessed to look in her eyes again, would he see Mei Lin in every line of her face? Would she be grateful to him for finding her, would she be happy that their family was made whole once more? The answer to that question eluded him, for he knew there was another, far more difficult question that would decide it. What troubled him more than anything else was that most pressing question; what horrors had she endured, during the long years of their separation? Had she found a safe haven, where she was sheltered and loved? Or had the violence and starvation and terror of war shattered her utterly? He did not know, and he could not say for certain what was worse, to wonder, or to _know. _

He rounded a corner and came to an abrupt halt, for much to his surprise he found Mrs. Beazley, once more staring up at the stars.

_Does she come here every night? _He wondered as he looked at her, the elegant line of her neck as she tilted her head back to gaze at the heavens, the soft cream-colored shawl she'd wrapped around herself to ward off the chill. She looked exactly, inexplicably the same as she had the last time he'd discovered her here, and he smiled as he took in the sight of her. All his life was chaos, but Mrs. Beazley was steady, warm, predictable in a way that called to him. It was late, and the castle was asleep, and she was on the roof, almost as if she'd been waiting for him.

"Nice night out?" Lucien called to her in a gentle voice.

Mrs. Beazley jumped, slightly, startled by the sound of his voice, but she regained her composure quickly, and gave a little curtsy as he came to stand beside her.

"Good evening, Your Majesty," she said, and Lucien tried his best not to stare at her; her voice, soft and musical to his ears, soothed his weary heart, and he wanted to soak her in, to draw comfort from her as he would from a warm bath.

"Good evening, Mrs. Beazley," he answered. He wanted to call her _Jean, _but he knew that he must not, and stopped himself at the last second. For a moment he simply stood beside her, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to put aside the worries that plagued him, but much to his surprise he found that the longer he stood there the more he wanted to tell her the truth, every piece of it.

"Is everything all right?" she asked him, her voice very low.

No one asked him that, any more. No one asked how he was feeling, or if he wanted to talk about it. They asked him if he needed anything, if whatever they'd put before him met with his approval, but they did not ask about _him. _She did, though, and he was grateful to her for it.

"Mrs. Beazley, what can you tell me about Sir Patrick?" he asked, choosing to answer her question in an indirect sort of way.

She turned to gaze at him, one eyebrow cocked as if she were taking the measure of him, weighing out his words and trying to determine his intent. If that were the case, he was fairly certain she'd see to the truth of him in a moment; those bright grey eyes did not miss a trick.

"I don't know him personally, sir, but he is well-liked."

It was a diplomatic answer, and did not help him a bit. Lucien grumbled and shuffled on his feet, leaning forward against the parapet to gaze down into the murky darkness below.

"What sort of relationship did he have with my father?" He left the rest of that question - _and what does he expect of me? - _unspoken.

"Well," she said slowly, carefully, "I think they got on well enough. It's always seemed to me that a King is rather like a father, and the Prime Minister is rather like a mother."

Lucien turned his head to face her, watching as she rested her hands on the stone beside him; it was a strange but somehow terribly apt description, the one she'd just given, and he rather felt as if she had more to say on the topic. And so he remained silent, hoping she'd continue.

"The King believes in upholding tradition, demands obedience from his children, sees his children as something he must protect. The Prime Minister does the work of keeping the children clothed and fed and educated. They aren't at cross purposes, necessarily, but they have different priorities. They both love their children, they just show it in different ways."

He could not help but gawp at her, utterly confounded by the simple, practical way she had so neatly defined the two positions. The analogy was rather perfect, he thought; traditional, conservative, demanding, those had been the best words to describe Thomas, as a father and as a King. He had laid out his expectations and everyone around him had scurried to uphold them. It was not his remit to make the laws that governed his people's day-to-day lives, the laws that regulated the market and the national health service and the schools and the welfare programs that cared for his people; that was the purview of the rather harried chaps in the Parliament. It was to the MPs - and the Prime Minister - the people turned to with their hands out when they needed something to eat, but in times of calamity - in times of _war -_ it was to the King they looked for reassurance and protection.

_A father and a mother, _he thought, bemused and staring at her still. _She's brilliant. _A lifetime of university courses in political science could not have summed it up so well.

"Some fathers are more willing to be partners with mothers, and some less so," she added, and Lucien realized then exactly what she was trying to tell him. Thomas and Sir Patrick had both wanted what was best for their people, he knew, but perhaps Thomas had been rather more heavy-handed about it. Perhaps Thomas had clung too tightly to his traditions, and chafed his PM at every turn while Sir Patrick tried to keep their kingdom - their _home_ \- running smoothly. It was the sort of arrangement Lucien could imagine, given what he knew of the two of them, and a powerful insight from a woman whose official role was simply _housekeeper. _

There was something in her voice that gave him pause, though, something that stopped him from telling her how much he agreed with her assessment. In the soft glow of the nearby lamp she looked almost ethereal, an otherworldly sort of sadness shining in every line of her face. She was a mother herself, he knew, had spent years of her life keeping her children housed and clothed and fed, and a question rose in his mind, one that had nothing at all to do with the running of the kingdom, and everything to do with _her_.

"What sort of father was your husband, Mrs. Beazely?"

It was a terribly personal sort of question, the sort of question he should never have asked her, but it was late, and dark, and the air was chilly and damp, and they were alone, and she was beautiful, and there was so much about her that he did not know.

In the darkness she smiled, wearing her sorrow as elegantly as some women wore evening gowns.

"The sort who wanted above all else to make his wife happy."

In that moment he wanted, more than anything, to hold her. It was so plain to see, how dearly she had loved her husband, how happy he had made her, how devastated she had been by that loss. Time had turned her wound to a scar, had healed her heart and stemmed the flood of her tears, but that grief would be with her always. Lucien knew a thing or two about that; every time he looked at the one faded photograph of his wife's face that remained he felt the ache of losing her tear through his chest. Every time he saw a family together, mother and father and children, he shattered just a little bit more, thinking of all that he had lost. And Jean, dear Mrs. Beazley, must have felt the same. The sharing of that grief was like a silken cord that bound them, their two hearts singing the same lament, and yet he could not tell her, for he had sworn to Sir Patrick that he would not tell another living soul about his family, not until they had some news.

Would Mei Lin speak of him so kindly, he wondered, if she still lived, if someone asked her? What sort of father _had_ he been? A gentler, warmer sort than his own, he hoped. He had loved the mother of his child, and given her all that he had, tried every day to make her happy just as Jean's husband had done. And as he contemplated this, and all that Mrs. Beazley had told him, he began to hope, for the very first time, that he might be good at this, at being King. Fatherhood had been the greatest joy of his life, and while he had lost his first child he had just inherited several million more of them, all in need of his protection, his devotion, his dedication. He was not sure his heart was big enough to shelter them all, but he knew that he must try, for the sake of his daughter, for the sake of the beautiful woman who stood beside him.

"Sir?" she asked him gently when he had been silent too long, her tone somewhat hesitant as if she feared she'd overstepped some unspoken boundary. Beside him she raised her hand briefly, as if she meant to reach out and touch him, but then she pulled it back quickly, and Lucien lamented for the loss of that touch he'd almost felt.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beazely," he answered. And he meant it with all his heart.


	11. Chapter 11

_1 December 1958_

Jean was humming as she worked. It wasn't a conscious action; her mind - and her hands - were occupied with another task. A whole host of maids and gardeners and various other servants had been hard at work all day, hanging the traditional Christmas decorations under her careful supervision. They would join her in the grand hall later, to assist with decorating the twelve foot pine that stood lonely sentinel in the corner of the cavernous room, but first she was allowed this moment of solitude, deftly untangling string after string of festive garland. It was the sort of task she could have delegated to someone else - or several someones, as there was rather a lot of it - but she was grateful for the momentary respite from the frantic activity of the day. There were four royal residences, and overseeing their decoration and maintenance was her occupation. She'd spent the morning on the telephone, giving her orders, the afternoon tromping through the castle and checking in on the various tasks already underway, but this moment was hers and hers alone, in the fading sunshine of an unseasonably mild late afternoon.

Christmas was quite her favorite time of year. The castle seemed to burst with life; there were parties, usually, a winter ball and a Christmas Eve feast, a Christmas Day ball, a Boxing Day extravaganza. All month long they would play host to visiting dignitaries and their families, and the announcement had just been made that very morning that King Lucien's coronation would take place on Christmas Eve. The traditional feast would double as a celebration of his coronation, and Jean's to-do list would grow exponentially. There were people to house and clean up after, and so much food to be made her head spun at the very thought of it. But first, this. First the comforting familiarity of garland and shining ornaments, wreaths and lights, candles and mistletoe. It was a bit early to be undertaking such preparations, and the Christmas Tree in the grand hall would almost certainly have to be - very quietly - replaced before the season was through, but her heart was glad.

It was not the decorations or the festivities or the presents that Jean so loved about Christmas, though; it was the memories. Memories of a simpler time, when her boys were small, their cheerful faces as they tore eagerly through brown paper to reveal the modest presents underneath, memories of holding baby Jack in her arms while she sang quietly with the rest of the congregation at midnight mass, memories of Christopher rolling her smoothly beneath him and rocking gently against her while they laughed and whispered words of love to one another in the stillness before the children woke on Christmas Day. It was the memories of love, the warmth of family, the peace of her church and the joyful potential of a coming new year that Jean so adored. She could only pray that this year her memories and her hope would not be lost beneath the noise.

"_Noel," _she began to sing, quietly, garland draped round her shoulders and dripping from her fingertips as she continued her careful work. "_Noel, born is the king of Israel…"_

She smiled around the words, a smile only somewhat tinged by sadness. Jack had had some difficulty with that particular song as a child, she remembered. _Oh, Jack, _her sweet wild boy who had become almost a stranger to her. Even as a boy he had been belligerent, had angrily demanded an accounting for anything he did not understand or did not like. Rules chafed him, and he was prone to breaking them just to prove that he could. But he had been sweet, once; he used to pick flowers for her, and she had smiled and accepted them gladly, wondering how she could chastise him for pilfering the blooms from the neighbor's garden when he had done it with such gentle intentions. He had this way of smiling, lopsided and easy, that reminded her so much of Christopher, reckless and impulsive, capturing her heart utterly no matter what sort of mischief he had caused. Jack had learned early that he could get away with murder so long as he kept his mother happy; how much trouble could he have avoided, she wondered, if only she had not been so charmed by his smile?

"_Noel," _she continued to sing, lost in the past, "_Noel, noel, noel-"_

She did not hear the door opening, did not hear the footsteps over the sounds of her voice and her thoughts, but eventually voices broke through the din, and she closed her lips at once, somewhat mortified that she had been discovered. It was the King, accompanied by the Earl Marshal and Rose Anderson from the Press Office, Matthew limping behind them with a grim look upon his face.

"When you leave the cathedral, we'll bring you straight here," the Earl Marshal was saying. The King might not have heard; he appeared most distracted, and wandered away from his retinue, drawn as if by some unseen force to the grand piano that stood beneath the tree, a bare few feet away from Jean.

"Mrs. Beazely," the King said in a soft voice, giving her a little nod as his hands reached for the piano, fingertips dragging against the elegant wood.

"Your Majesty," she answered just as softly.

Those were the only words they spoke to one another; the Earl Marshal had shuffled over and once more taken up his detailed recitation of the plans for the coronation, while the King settled himself on the piano bench and listened with a pained expression. After a time he was led away from her, and she watched him go, no longer humming, no longer singing, no longer thinking of Jack, a strange sort of lament settling low in her chest.

* * *

It was later, much later, and the castle was asleep, or as close to that as it ever got. Jean had taken herself down to the kitchen for one final cup of tea and a few minutes spent with the wireless, but the time had come for even she to seek her bed. She was striding silently across the marble floor of the foyer toward the staircase when her ears picked up the soft strains of an unexpected sound. At once she abandoned the stairs and made her way instead to the grand hall, to the polished floor and the gilt and the sparkle of the Christmas decorations so recently hung in place.

Every inch of the castle was well maintained - Jean saw to that - and so the vast doors did not squeak on their hinges as she swung them open. The hall beyond was all in darkness, save for a small lamp shining beside the grand piano. The sound that had so beguiled her had been the sound of that piano, picking out a familiar tune. It was the same carol she had been singing earlier in the day, played with the expert grace of one who had performed it a thousand times, but it was not the song that caused her breath to catch in her throat. Or at least it was not _only_ the song.

The King was sitting there, bent over the keys, his broad, strong hands caressing the melody as gently as a mother would her child. He had abandoned his jacket and waistcoat, and sat before her in only his dark trousers and white shirt. The fabric stretched taught across well muscled shoulders, and Jean found herself frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the sudden yearning she felt at the sight of him, by the sudden rush of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her as she wondered what it meant, that he should play the same song he had caught her singing only a few hours earlier.

Two months he'd been in the castle, now. Two months, and they had spoken to one another softly more times than she could count, now, had shared pieces of their pasts, of themselves. The King had demonstrated a concern for her - for everyone who worked in the castle - most unlike his predecessors, and she found him at once alarming and endearing. When she made her way up to the roof of an evening she tried to stop herself from wishing he would find her, tried to quell the disappointment she felt each time she entered a room and he was not in it. Yes, he was handsome, and clever, and kind to her besides, yes there was a brokeness about him that called to her, made her want to take him in her hands and heal him, but he was the _King. _He was not hers to yearn for her, hers to touch; he was so far beyond her reach the very thought was laughable. And besides, she told herself time and time again, she did not really know him, not truly, and could not ever hope to, for he might as well have been from another planet. It was not her place to be his friend, his confidant, or anything else her traitorous mind might wish for in the still of the night.

And yet, she could not stop.

Her mouth was open, poised to sing out the words, to match the skillful playing of his fingertips with her own joyous harmony, but before she could he stumbled across the keys, and the music stopped abruptly. He cursed, low and angry, and reached for a glass he'd left on the back of the piano, but he missed his mark and sent the glass careening to the ground where it shattered into a thousand tiny slivers, a dark pool of what she supposed must be whiskey spreading out beneath it.

"Damn," he swore again, but when he tried to right himself he got his feet tangled up and fell back against the bench, his elbow slamming into the keys with a terrible cacophony.

"Damn!" he shouted this time, and Jean took that as her cue to intervene.

"Your Majesty," she called to him, rushing to his side, not bothering with pleasantries. His eyes were bloodshot and half closed already, his body slumped back against the piano, his hands trembling, but it seemed to her that his cheeks flushed at the sight of her.

_That'll be the whiskey, _she told herself sternly.

" 's all right, Jean," he said, his words thick and slurred as she knelt beside him, wanting to look into his eyes. For a moment she stared at him, shocked beyond all reason by the sound of her given name falling from his lips. When on earth had he learned it, and why did he choose to use it now?

"I break everything I touch, you see," he said, throwing his arms out expansively and almost tumbling from the bench. "I'm not to be trusted with precious things."

"It was only a glass, sir," she said, trying to keep her voice even, trying not to drown in the blue of his eyes, so beguiling even now, bleary as they were. "Hardly irreplaceable."

His stare was baleful, full of grief, and she could not help but wonder what troubled him so, this man who had everything most men dream of, wealth and status and power, his every need attended to by a horde of servants who asked no questions. He had a beautiful home, and more food than anyone could ever hope to eat, and yet there was an emptiness to him.

_What does any of that matter, without love? _

It was a terrible thought, and one she tried to banish at once, but still, it lingered.

"Right, then," she said, reaching out all unthinking to brace herself against his thigh as she rose to her feet. The muscle beneath her palm was hot and hard and just the thought of it sent a rush of heat to her face, but the King did not appear to notice. "Bed," she said, holding her hand out to him. He threw his head back, watching her for a long moment, and she wondered if it occurred to him how forward, how discourteous she had been, wondered if he didn't like it.

"As the lady wishes," he answered winsomely. He took her hand, but he was far too heavy for her to pull him up all on her own. She gave a great heave, and he did his best to stand, but his legs were unsteady and he swayed on the spot. Operating by instinct, with no time for thought, she used the hand still holding his to pull his arm round her shoulders, and took his weight there.

"Come on, then," she whispered, and he followed her from the room, leaving the piano and the shattered glass and the whiskey where they lay.

Her heart was in her throat with every step they took. His suite was all the way up on the fourth floor, and she prevaricated as she guided him towards the stairs; it was a long way to go with a man twice her size who could hardly stand on his own, and there was an unoccupied room with a bed in it on the first floor. But if he were not in his own bed come morning his valet would shout the whole castle down, and she wanted to spare him that embarrassment.

_Might be better than the embarrassment of the pair of you slipping on the stairs and cracking both your heads open, _the reasonable part of her mind counseled her, but Lucien - _the King -_ seemed determined to reach his own bed. It was a difficult business and they took their time about it, one step at a time, resting on each landing so they could both catch their breath. And all the while she held his hand, the weight of his arm heavy but also somehow comforting round her shoulders. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and expensive cologne, and his clothes were soft, his body warm; _oh, _but it had been such a long time, such a very long time, since last she'd had a man's arms around her.

At last they reached his suite, and she helped him to his bed, where he flopped back like a sleepy child, his eyes already closed. Jean's heart was pounding, half from the labor it had taken to reach this point and half from the thoughts his proximity inspired, thoughts of wanting, thoughts of pain. He had been a soldier, she knew; what horrors had visited him, in those dark days everyone else seemed to have forgotten? Was he, like her, still troubled by ghosts?

Carefully she removed his shoes, and then fetched a blanket down from the closet to cover him. He seemed content enough; he caught the edge of the blanket in his hands, and turned his head toward her on the pillows, eyes closed but a smile tugging at his lips beneath his beard.

"All right?" she asked him gently.

"All right," he agreed. "Thank you, Jean...sweet Jean...my Jean." And then he gave a great sigh, and his whole body went slack as consciousness deserted him.

She left him there, tiptoed from his suite and back down the corridor, grateful with every breath that no one had discovered her in that place. She did not want to have to explain herself, to reveal his shame, did not want to share this moment with anyone else. _My Jean_, he had called her, and she hardly knew how to feel about it. She had never been the sort to want, to _need_ to belong to someone else, had cultivated her own independence until it was most precious to her. But when he spoke her name..._oh,_ it was as if some tiny, frightened piece of herself stepped trembling from shadows into the light, as desperate for a piece of affection as a wild dog for a bone. Her head was spinning, as she returned to the great hall and cleared away the mess he had made. She felt almost dizzy, as if she had climbed to a great height, and peered over the edge only to find herself seized by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that in the next moment she must surely plummet into the abyss.


	12. Chapter 12

_8 December 1958_

"Really," Lucien said, no longer even trying to hide his exasperation, "isn't this all a bit...too much?"

The Earl Marshal frowned. While the man did not speak, Lucien fancied he could almost hear him saying _Your Majesty, it is hardly enough. _

"It's customary, Your Majesty," Alice said primly. She was standing just behind him, and though he could not see her he knew that she would be surveying the scene before her with a critical eye. Though initially Lucien had found himself completely flabbergasted by Alice Harvey and her strange, almost abrupt manner of speaking, he had come to rely on her entirely. He had heard it whispered that it was most unusual for a woman to serve as Personal Secretary to the King, but Alice had been promoted to the position prior to Thomas's death, and Lucien could see why. She was a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman, and she ran his life with all the grim determination of a drill sergeant.

"With all those open flames in the cathedral I'll go up like a Roman candle if I stumble," Lucien grumbled. He was aware that he was whining, but he couldn't help it. At that very moment he was standing on a box in the center of the grand hall, the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling merrily in the corner while adjustments were made to the garments he was to wear for the coronation. Lucien had never felt as out of control of his own person as he did in that moment; it was his place to stand very still and let his valet Peter and the seamstresses and the Earl Marshal poke and prod and readjust him, tug on his collar and fluff his robe and fiddle with his hair. Lucien had never, in his life, experienced so many people so completely consumed by the matter of his personal appearance.

The first order of business had been his suit. Despite his vehement protestations that he would be perfectly content in one of his navy suits it had been decided that he should wear full military dress. That he had served with the British army and not his own nation's forces did not seem to matter one lick to anyone around him. _We enjoy a comfortable relationship with Great Britain, _the Earl Marshal had told him. _If you were an ordinary soldier, you could be transferred into our army and maintain your rank of Major. _Of course, Lucien was no ordinary soldier, and he would not be wearing the crown insignia he had become accustomed to before his departure from the army. Upon his elevation to the throne, he had become the Field Marshal of his nation's army, a mostly ceremonial rank reserved for the monarch to demonstrate his absolute power over the military. It was a fiction, of course; Lucien wouldn't order troop movements or declare war unilaterally, and in recent decades Parliament had taken steps to ensure that he _couldn't, _but still, the honor remained. He wore a navy uniform, dripping with ribbons and medals, and the fabric itched something awful. Or perhaps it wasn't the fabric at all, just Lucien's body reacting violently to the very idea of wading once more into war, celebrating that which had brought him so much grief.

The uniform would have been injustice enough on its own, but to add insult to injury he had also been provided with a thick, monstrous fur cape. That cape currently swirled around him; were he to stand upon the ground and not the box that had been provided for him, the cape would have extended in a semicircle five feet around him. It was deeply cowled, and ancient symbols had worked all through it with gold thread. His skin crawled at the very thought of such opulence, at the sheer number of little animals who had been sacrificed to make it. The thing was heavy, and he found it difficult to turn corners while wearing it. When he had mentioned this to the Earl Marshal, the old man had pursed his lips and blandly informed him that he would do his best to make sure his sovereign only had to walk in straight lines, on the day.

His shoes were terribly shiny and pinched his toes, and the signet ring upon his finger was so heavy he feared it might slip off at any moment. The crown had not yet been placed upon his head, but Peter stood nearby, holding the monstrosity aloft on a cushion. It was nearly a foot tall, fur and gold and jewel-encrusted, and a petulant part of Lucien's heart wanted to knock it from the lad's hands and give it a kick for good measure. Not that it would do much good, he knew; they would place the crown upon his head, would place the ceremonial saber in his hands, and he would have to stand there, holding all of it, dutifully repeating the words that would seal his fate for good and all.

"You will wear the Jubilee circlet en route to the cathedral," Alice told him, leaving her spot behind him to circle him once, taking in his appearance with a critical eye. It was the circlet he wore at the moment, beaten silver set with one large ruby. "When you arrive you will be taken to the cloisters, where Peter will be waiting. He will take the circlet, and give you the crown and the saber. When the ceremony is complete you will return to the cloisters, and switch them again."

Lucien found himself overcome with a sudden urge to tell Peter he could keep crown and circlet both, that the lad had his blessing to pawn them and go off on a very long holiday, but the Earl Marshal had no sense of humor, and so he bit his tongue.

The whole ceremony had been choreographed like some incomprehensible modern dance, and Lucien was struggling to learn the steps. It didn't really matter, he supposed; he would not be alone on the day, and the various people in charge of him would not let him stumble irreversibly.

The vast doors of the hall swung open, then, and Lucien looked up quickly, eager for some distraction. It was Jean - _Mrs. Beazley, _he reminded himself sternly - with her arms full of fresh garland.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," she said quickly, stepping back as soon as she caught sight of the little gathering in the center of the room. "I'll come back later."

"We shan't be much longer, Mrs. Beazley," the Earl Marshal said grandly.

She gave a little nod and turned away, and as she departed something deep inside Lucien's chest seemed to snap. He was uncomfortable, he was bored, he was vexed, and he had not been alone with Jean for a week, not since that night she'd poured him into bed. His memories of the event were hazy but he recalled enough of his boorish behavior, and he was desperate to make amends.

"Back in a tick," he said, and then, despite the general outcry from the Earl Marshal and Alice and the confusion of the seamstresses, he strode purposefully from the room, the Jubilee circlet balanced rakishly on his head and the cape billowing out behind him like a sail. They could tell him what to wear and where to stand and what to say on the day of his coronation, but the King was still allowed some semblance of power, and in this instance there was nothing they could do to stop him.

* * *

"Mrs. Beazley!" A sharp voice rang out behind her, and Jean spun on her heel, obeying more out of reflex than any sense of deference. The sight that greeted her when she turned stole the breath from her lungs, though; _does he know_, she wondered, _how commanding he looks, dressed like that? _He was a tall man, a broad man already, but the uniform lent a sense of dignity to the muscular breadth of his chest, and the billowing cape made him seem like some warrior chief from the stories of old. The crown perched upon his head was sitting at a jaunty angle, but its disarray did not mar his visage; if anything, it made him seem more determined, seemed to highlight the movie-star handsomeness of his face, the shine of his slicked-back hair.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, dropping into a deeper curtsy than she had ever given him before. The formal nature of his clothing was a stark, almost painful reminder of his elevated station, in such sharp contrast to the somewhat familiar nature of their last encounter.

He strode towards her until he was standing less than a foot from her side, close enough for her to reach out and feel the softness of his cape beneath her hand, if she dared. The marble floor beneath their feet and the soaring ceiling overhead added to the sheer grandiosity of the moment; Jean had been living and working in the castle for so long that she forgot, sometimes, that it was not just another fine house. The importance of this place, this man, was impossible to deny in that moment, however.

"I wanted to apologize," he told her, and she found the gentleness of his tone utterly at odds with the preeminence of his appearance. "For the other night. I'm afraid I behaved quite badly, and I'm sorry you had to clean up after me."

For a moment Jean could do no more than stare at him, aghast and conflicted. It was not his place to apologize to _her_, especially not now, wearing the robes of state, wearing his sharp uniform, wearing that circlet that was as good as a crown. If only he would _act_ like a King, be more aloof, more demanding, more disinterested in her as a person, Jean might have found him far more tolerable, but as it was her heart began to rip itself to shreds every time he drew too near, for he was handsome and kind and so eager to please that she found it hard, sometimes, to remember who he was. It was all well and good for him to do as he wished, but she was only a housekeeper, and she could never hope to be his equal. She found herself placed in an impossible position, torn between her heart and her duty, and each time she encountered him she found the lines of decorum beginning to blur.

"It's quite all right," she said just as softly, trying to dismiss the service she had provided for him, trying to forget the comforting weight of his arm around her shoulders.

"No, it isn't," he told her heavily. "I let my memories get the best of me. It won't happen again."

_I let my memories get the best of me. _What on earth did he mean by that? She wondered. Had he found himself haunted in the still of the night, pursued by ghosts and phantom visions of the terrible things he'd seen during the war? Or were there other memories, closer to home, that troubled him, memories dredged up by all the talk of coronation and his newfound status as King? In that moment, she wanted to know. She wanted, desperately, to understand him, to share his thoughts, to offer him comfort. Their position was too public, however, right in the center of the foyer, right in the beating heart of the castle, people walking to and fro all around them, and even if she wanted to reach out and place a tender hand upon his arm she could not, for to touch a King unbidden was an unforgivable infraction, and a sackable offense.

And so she only said, "you play quite well." She tried to say it kindly, hoped that he could hear in her voice that she did not harbor any ill will towards him, that everything would be all right.

He frowned, though, and her heart fell.

"My father was the real talent," he said bleakly. "I was rather more successful with the drums."

Jean was so startled by his confession, by the thought of this man in his uniform and robe and crown enthusiastically hammering upon a drum-set that she could not help but smile. Before she could speak, however, the _tap tap tap_ of a cane upon the marble floor heralded Matthew Lawson's arrival, and so she bit her lip, and kept her words to herself.

"Your Majesty," Matthew said as he approached, his expression pained. "The Earl Marshal is having fits. Do you think we could go back and finish the preparations?"

The King sighed, and his shoulders slumped, and for a moment he looked more like a boy playing dress-up than a King nearing fifty years old.

"All right," he agreed glumly. "Let's get it over with, then."

Matthew turned away, and the King offered Jean a sad smile, and a little nod.

"Mrs. Beazley," he said.

"Your Majesty," she answered, and then she was left alone with her garland and her thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

_19 December 1958_

"Will that work, do you think?" Alice asked, her gaze focused firmly on the blueprint of the castle Jean had procured to aid in their afternoon's work.

"Oh, I think we can make do," Jean answered lightly. There were thirty-five guest suites in the castle, and between them she and Alice had neatly allocated each of them to the various visiting dignitaries who would begin arriving the next day. Most of the foreign delegations had elected to take rooms in their own embassies, and most members of their kingdom's peerage had estates of their own within the walls of the city, but there were a select few who merited housing within the castle itself. Queen Elizabeth II, for example, and several members of her entourage would be taking up seven suites between them. That had caused quite a commotion, the announcement that the Queen meant to attend herself and not simply send her Prime Minister or Foreign Secretary - though both those gentlemen would be in attendance, on the day. Alice had told Jean that the Queen herself had sent a letter explaining her decision to make the journey; it would be a symbol of the strong ties between their two nations, she'd said, and likewise a symbol of her nation's gratitude to King Lucien, for his service and sacrifice while fighting under British colors.

"Frankly, I'll be relieved when it's done," Alice said primly. "The King has been in quite the mood for the last few days, and I don't imagine it's likely to improve until the coronation is over."

"Oh?" Jean asked, trying to make her inquiry sound casual, as if she weren't terribly invested in the answer. She could hardly explain it to herself, but the thought of the King distressed and out of sorts - and worse, taking out his ill humor on Alice - left her feeling somewhat mournful. He had wealth and status, power and privilege, but his behavior had not been that of a petulant, spoiled prince. From the very first night they met he had revealed himself to be thoughtful and desperately eager to please, had spoken of his worries for his people, his complicated relationship with his own father. More than once he had gone stalking along the battlements in the still of the night with a haunted look upon his face, a tremble in his hands that reminded Jean of nothing so much as Christopher's friends when they'd returned from the war, the quiet stories their wives had whispered of men jumping at small noises and weeping in the darkness. He had suffered - _I fell in love with the wrong girl, _he'd told her once, _and I lost her, _and _oh, _how Jean still wondered what that meant - had been pulled away from the life he had made for himself and forced to fill his father's shoes. There was something lonesome, something hopeless about him that called to Jean's tender heart, but she did not know how to soothe him, or even if she could.

"He's distractible, and if you ask me he isn't taking this business very seriously. The man doesn't want to be a King, but it isn't as if he has much choice."

That was something Jean could understand; she'd been robbed of her own choices, in the past. A quick wedding and a quick move to a farm in the country hidden from view of judgmental neighbors, the splash of blood on a warm wood floor, the whimpering sound of her own tears as two-grim faced men saw themselves out of her ramshackle house while her sons tugged at her skirts. Those memories, those days, were grim, but she had found a joy in the life before her, had found comfort and a sense of purpose. Perhaps with time her King would as well.

"I suppose it's a big adjustment," she said carefully, "going from being a soldier and a doctor to being King."

Alice looked up from the blueprints, her eyes wide. "How did you hear about that? I didn't think anyone knew what he's been up to these last few years."

_He told me, _she thought, and yet somehow she could not quite bring herself to speak the words. Those moments she had shared alone with her King in the darkness were precious to her for reasons she was loathe to contemplate, and while she had always got on quite well with Alice the pair of them weren't exactly friends. They were acquaintances, partners sometimes, but they did not often share confidences with one another.

"Oh," she said breezily, "I heard someone mention it, somewhere." It was not exactly a lie, but it was an obfuscation, and she supposed that was just as bad.

Alice nodded. "I wish he would let us tell people. He says after the coronation, he'll let the Press Office draw up some details for the newspapers. A little explanation of how he's spent his time. I suppose it'll have to do."

Jean nodded. The whispers had reached her; people had always felt comfortable with her, come to her with their secrets and their confessions and their troubles, and while she never broke a confidence she remembered them, each and every one. Her nephew Danny had been on the front gate with Charlie Davis the night their King had come home, and he had confided in her how strange the man's appearance had been, stepping all alone through the fog like a ghost. _No one knows him, _Danny had said, somewhat apprehensively. _How do we know he'll do what's right?_ Jean had given him some platitudes about how the King had been raised from birth for just this purpose, how the Parliament and the Prime Minister wouldn't let him lead them astray even if he tried, but still, those questions lingered in Danny's eyes, in the eyes of the maids who were too frightened of him to even clean his suite of rooms. Jean did that work herself after he went downstairs to work each day; the younger girls were afraid of him walking in on them, were afraid of the possibility they might find themselves alone in a room with him, afraid of doing something wrong and risking his wrath, and Jean was much too old for such frivolous worries, and much too fond of the King besides. She made up his bed and took his clothes to be laundered and cleaned up the whiskey glasses he left scattered around the rooms, and as she did she found herself more and more convinced that this was as it should be. No one else needed to see this, she thought, the tangled mess of his sheets after a long night spent tossing and turning, the evidence of his fondness for drink. The girls would not understand, and they would not keep his secrets. Jean, though, Jean would do both.

* * *

"Five days, Matthew," Lucien said, leaning back in his chair with whiskey glass in hand. It was rather late, and Matthew was off the clock, as it were, still dressed in his uniform but with the tie askew and his collar unfastened, the business of guarding the King turned over to younger, less tired men for the evening. It was not often Lucien was able to cajole his old friend into enjoying a nightcap with him, and every time he did he found himself desperately grateful for the company.

"You've been King for more than two months now, sir," Matthew pointed out, grimacing as he stretched his bad leg out in front of him. "This is just...a party, really."

"Some party," Lucien grumbled. "I've got to stand up there trussed up like a Christmas turkey while they pour oil on my head and make me speak Latin and then parade me through the city like...like…"

"Like royalty, sir?" The turn of Matthew's mouth was wry, and Lucien fought a somewhat childish urge to stick his tongue out at him.

"Honestly, Matthew, you can have it. I'll turn the whole business over to you right now, if you like."

All traces of amusement vanished from Matthew's face at once. He kept his leg straight out in front of him but he leaned heavily on the arm of his chair, as close to Lucien as he could manage, his expression grim and deadly serious.

"I know you're having a hard time with all of this," he said, "but you'll need to keep thoughts like that to yourself. That's how people end up losing their heads. I don't want any part of it, sir. You're the King. You've known from the day you were born that you were going to be King, and now you are. And you'll make a fine one, if you can stop feeling sorry for yourself."

The words hung heavy in the air between them; Matthew sighed and retreated back into his armchair, his expression not contrite but watchful, wary, as if he realized he'd said to much. If Lucien had been a different man - a man more like his father - he could have fired Matthew on the spot for such insolence, banned him from the castle and kicked him out of the place that had been his home since birth just as much as it had been Lucien's. He wasn't that sort of man, of course; while it rankled, hearing someone speak to him so bluntly, while he wanted very much to defend himself, he would never seek such punitive action against his friend for the crime of having spoken the truth.

"It isn't just this business of being King," he said after a long, terrible silence. "I suppose I could get used to that in time. It's just that…"

_It's just that Patrick promised me he would try to find my family, and it's been over a month with no word. _Lucien himself had spent the last thirteen years since the end of the war trying to find his family on his own, without success. He had hoped that his country's security services, with their resources and their connections, could do what he alone could not, could bring his wife and child back to him. A month was perhaps not enough time, but the hope that he had felt in the beginning had begun to fade. What if his family was never found? What if the security services never even searched for them, only sat with their hands folded for six months, or a year, and then blithely announced that his family was dead? Such a charade would suit Patrick's purposes just fine, and save him the agony of having to introduce a Chinese girl to their kingdom as heir apparent, would save him money and give him exactly what he'd wanted all along: the leverage to force Lucien into an appropriate marriage. He did not want to believe Patrick capable of such deception, but he found his heart besieged by suspicion.

"What is it?" Matthew asked, genuinely concerned. Until that moment Lucien had told no one else of his family, the grief in his heart, his worries for the future. He had wanted, very much, to tell Mrs. Beazley, but each time he felt the words on the tip of his tongue something had stopped him, and he had kept his peace. Now, after three glasses of whiskey, sitting in the dark with the one person he counted his oldest friend in all the world, he could think of no reason not to give voice to his fears.

"I want to tell you something," he said eventually. "But you must promise not to tell another living soul. I mean it, Matthew."

"It would be treason to betray my King's confidence," Matthew said evenly.

For a long moment Lucien regarded him carefully, warily, but he saw the sincerity in every line of his old friend's face, and his heart cried out for peace.

"All right." he said.

And then he began. He told the whole sorry tale, how he had met Mei Lin, how he had wed her in secret, the joy of their child, the horror of the Japanese invasion, the long years he'd spent in captivity, his desperate search, the Faustian bargain he'd struck with Patrick. He told Matthew all of it, the reasons why he could not sleep, the doubts that plagued him, and everything else besides. If Patrick could not find his family he would be swallowed whole by grief, and forced to wed a stranger, to give to another what he had sworn would belong to Mei Lin, and her alone, for all his days. Would be forced to hold another child, and hide from the world his wretched sorrow at the memory of the one had lost. Would be forced to retreat further from the man that he was, the truth of his own self, and into shadows.

"Bloody hell," Matthew said when Lucien's story was through.

"I'll drink to that," Lucien said grimly, draining his glass in one go. The path had been laid before his feet, but he was faced with a fork in the road, and no way to know which side he might be forced to take. On one side there lay a hopeful chance for peace, for a reunion with his family, though that was cloaked in uncertainty, as he could not say what they had endured during their separation. On the other side lay only darkness, a woman chosen for him not by virtue of love or want or respect, but by virtue of her birth and Patrick's sensibilities. Lucien had not ever thought to wed again, before that fateful day when Patrick had laid out his ultimatum, but if he _were_ to wed, he could not imagine that the woman he would want would be anything like the girl Patrick would choose.

What sort of woman would he want to take to wife, if he were forced to make a choice? He could not say, but when he closed his eyes he saw her, soft dark curls and bright blue-grey eyes, little wrinkles at the corners of her full lips, the enticing tuck of her waist above smooth hips, the gentleness of her hands that were never still.

_You hardly know her, _he tried to tell himself, but the vision of her remained, a vision of something he wanted, and yet knew he could never claim for himself.


	14. Chapter 14

_24 December 1958_

It had been a beautiful day, she thought. The air had been chill but crisp, the sun shining brightly down on the glittering festivities, bringing out the shine of her King's hair, the shine of his medals, the shine of his crown. People had lined the pavement, kept at bay by police and soldiers, while he rode down the broad avenue to the cathedral in an open, horse-drawn carriage. He did not wave and smile like some sort of pageant queen; he stood tall and grim, and she rather thought the people loved him all the more for it. He had looked, she thought, every inch a King. Powerful, strong, distant as the sun, he had looked like the sort of man who could lead armies into battle, the sort of man who could be trusted with the fate of his nation. She had watched, crammed into the guardhouse with the rest of the staff, while he spoke the words in a clear, proud voice, while he was anointed and blessed, his rule now unquestioned and complete. She had listened, rapt with attention, when he addressed the crowd from the steps of the cathedral, after, when he spoke of peace and prosperity and a bountiful future, and the people had roared their approval so loudly she fancied for a moment she could feel the ground tremble beneath her feet, though she stood miles away from him.

And then she had returned to the castle, overseeing the last of the preparations and then hiding out in the kitchen while the coronation ball carried on in the grand hall. She had stood at the ready, all night long, while people bustled in and out carrying trays of drinks and fancy hors d'œuvres. There had been no calamity requiring her attention, but still she had been forced to wait, listening to the soft strains of the music floating in the air, thinking of that night she'd followed a different tune, and found an altogether unexpected sight. The festivities officially ended at 11:00 p.m., but Jean had lingered to dispatch a flurry of maids to begin the cleanup, and, once satisfied that everything was in hand, she had donned her veil, and made her way to the small chapel on the north side of the castle grounds to sit for midnight mass.

It was Christmas Eve, after all. She rather thought that some of her compatriots had forgotten that, in the flurry of activity surrounding the coronation. The crowd gathered this year seemed particularly small, but then it seemed so every year. The number of the faithful was shrinking, she knew. The young people in the castle did not keep with her traditions, but then she supposed their roots did not run so very deep as hers. The words, the hymns, the prayers, the benediction of the priest bound her to a life that had begun before most of the maids currently working under her direction had ever been born. They did not have her history, her grief and her lament; perhaps in time they would, but they were young and untroubled by such memories.

Jean, though, Jean knew where she'd come from, and she knew where she belonged. She sat on a hard pew in the ancient chapel and felt the serenity, the very breath of God whispering through the air around her. It was not required that she wear her widow's veil to the service; only the very old women covered their heads for mass, these days. Jean herself was only just past forty, but she remembered the old ways, and she kept to them. Small remembrances like that one made her feel closer, somehow, to the woman she had been before, the family that had scattered to the wind, and for an hour or so she had not felt alone.

But then the service had ended, and though it was terribly late Jean could not bring herself to seek her bed. She gathered her white shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders and slipped up the stairs to the battlements, to walk along the old stone parapet and gaze up at the stars. She reached her accustomed place and pressed her hands flat to the stones, her chin lifted high, her thoughts drifting on the wind; _where are you tonight, my boys? _

Young Christopher was far from her side, spending the holiday season in Korea while his wife went home to be with her family for Christmas. And Jack...Jack was lost to her. Where he had gone she could not say, and while she desperately wished to know she feared the answer would not set her heart at rest.

"I thought I might find you here," a soft voice called out to her. She did not turn; she did not need to. He would come to her, the way he always did, of his own choosing, in his own way. And if her heart was racing, if the thought of standing beside him sent a chill coursing down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather, she would keep such thoughts to herself. Had she been hoping to see him? She could not say. It was not a hope her mind had articulated, not a rational thought that had set her feet to climbing the stairs, but it was a hope she carried in her heart most every day, and she had grown so accustomed to its presence she hardly remarked on it anymore. It was improper, she knew, to stand alone with him now, particularly on this day, this blessed day, but she could not find the strength to turn away.

"Your Majesty," she murmured.

_I thought I might find you here, _he'd said, and _oh, _how those words filled her heart with warmth. He came to stand beside her, broad and strong in his uniform still, and she could hardly breathe beneath the strain of keeping her questions to herself. Why should he seek her out, this man who was so far above her station, this man who had the entire world laid out at his feet? Why should he think of her, when compared to him she was so unremarkable? Oh, Jean knew her own worth and would brook no discourtesy from anyone - King or otherwise - but she also knew that she was only a housekeeper, that she stood upon the parapet in a plain black dress she'd sewn herself, wrapped in a white shawl she'd knitted the winter before, with the black lace widow's veil still covering her hair. He was a _King,_ and she was only one lonely woman, but he had been thinking of her, and she had been wishing that he would. There was a still, peaceful quality to the air that only came at Christmas, and she remained unmoving, waiting to see what other surprises this night might have in store.

* * *

"All right, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked as he settled into his usual place beside her, gazing out into the night. There was a small blue box weighing heavy in his trouser pocket, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He had hoped to find her, but he was more familiar with disappointment than satisfaction, and now that she was here he found some of his confidence dwindling. It had seemed like such a good idea, earlier in the evening. He had stopped a passing maid and casually inquired as to Mrs. Beazley's whereabouts, as if he had some matter of linens or accommodations to discuss, and the maid had told him in a trembling voice that Mrs. Beazley had gone to mass. The timing of it suited him just fine; he had raced up the stairs to his suite and slipped the box in his pocket, downed a glass of whiskey for good measure and waited for the clock to strike 1:00 a.m. before mounting the stairs. If she had not been there he would have found her the following day, but there was something rather..._special, _he thought, about presenting her with his gift here, now, in this place where they had met, when all the world was asleep, and no on around to see.

"I'm very well, thank you," she told him, though there was a note of sadness in her tone that left him wishing he possessed the skill to make her smile. No doubt she was missing her children; there was nothing more sorrowful, he thought, than a mother without her children at Christmas. Perhaps they would come to visit her, before the holiday season was through. He rather hoped that they would, and he was resolved to ask her about it later, but there was something he needed to do first.

"I have something for you," he said quickly, reaching into his pocket and drawing out the little box with trembling hands.

She turned to him sharply, her expression agonized as she caught sight of the box.

"Oh, no, sir, I can't accept it," she said, raising one of her hands in a gesture of refusal, rather than acceptance.

"Is there some rule I'm not aware of?" He tried to make the question sound light, but his heart was troubled. He had thought that perhaps his gift might make her glad, but she seemed so distressed. If there was in fact some sort of proscription against the King bestowing personal gifts upon members of staff he had just committed a grievous error, and he did not even know how to begin making amends.

"No," she answered after a moment. "Technically, no, but I can't imagine that you've bought gifts for all the staff, and...well...it wouldn't look right, would it?"

Strange, but he had never seen her hesitate before. She had always been so sure of herself, so sure of what to do, what to say, where to be. She carried that certainty like a badge of honor, but now her voice was small, and full of doubt. Of course she was right; if word got out that he had singled her out to receive a gift it would cause quite a stir. It would not do, to favor one member of staff above the others - particularly not one so pretty as she - and yet he did, and he knew it, and if the fear in her eyes was anything to go by, she knew it as well. Still, though, he had settled upon this course, and he would not be deterred.

"Well," he said, making a show of glancing around as if checking to see if anyone were standing nearby. They were quite alone, which was just how he wanted it to be. "There's no one here to see. And I didn't buy it, technically. I mean I did, but it was a very, very long time ago. Please, Mrs. Beazley, I...I want you to have this."

And he did. The thought had come to him days before, when he had been digging through the trunk he'd brought with him when he returned home, and stumbled across this bauble. It was beautiful, a relic from another time. He had been thinking how unfair it was, that it should lie forgotten and unloved in the depths of his trunk, and not be worn, not be treasured. And then he had thought about _her_, this lovely woman who so occupied his thoughts of late, who seemed to have so little in the way of personal adornment, who he so desperately wanted to thank for her kindness and compassion. It had clicked together in his mind like the pieces of a puzzle slotting into place, and he had become quite convinced that it was meant to be hers.

"Please," he said again. She watched him for a moment, grey eyes sharp and beseeching. It was plain that she was torn between conviction and curiosity, between duty and want, but it was Christmas Eve, after all, and Christmas was a time for the giving of gifts, and the receiving of them.

"I have nothing to give you in return," she said softly.

He sucked in a sharp breath, hoping she didn't notice. There was a weight to her words, a deeper meaning he understood all too well. The giving of gifts, the warmth and the familiarity of it, was an act of affection. It was the sort of thing a man might do for a woman he was courting, to find her in a special place and present her with a beautiful bauble. It was the sort of thing that was most often done with reciprocity in mind. Mrs. Beazley had no physical gift to give him, and there was nothing else she could offer him instead. She could not be his sweetheart, could not hold his hand, could not let his lips brush against her cheek, or hers against the corner of his mouth. She could not give him promises or devotion, could give him nothing more than she had done already. Her service was her gift, and he accepted it gladly, but he could take no more from her.

"That's all right," he said earnestly. "I'm not expecting anything."

And he wasn't. He knew the lines that had been drawn between them, the boundaries they must respect. But still he held out his hand to her, the little box balanced on his palm, and all his hopes with it.

"All right," she said finally, and his heart sang as she reached out and took the box from him.

"Go on," he said, suddenly eager to watch her face as his gift was revealed to her.

She flashed a smile at him and then began to carefully unfasten the ribbon that held the box closed; he reached out his hand to her and she placed the ribbon in his palm, and then he tucked it in his pocket. And then she opened the box, and the breath caught in her throat.

"_Oh," _she gasped, and for the briefest of moments he wished most fervently that she'd felt free enough to use his name.

It was a jade brooch in the shape of a lotus flower, inset with diamonds. He'd purchased it for Mei Lin before the invasion, intending to give it to her for her birthday. But the bombs had come before that day, and the little brooch had been stowed in his bag, saved for better days. Through the long years in the interment camp and the endless wandering that had come after Lucien had carried it with him, thinking only of returning it to his wife, that woman he had once loved so well. When he had discovered the brooch in his trunk, however, when he had pulled it out from beneath his folded trunks and the sheaf of drawings on loose paper, it had occurred to him that perhaps it was meant for Mei Lin no longer.

Though no word had come he was still waiting for some sign of his family. If they were found, if Mei Lin were returned to him, he realized he did not want to give the brooch to her, after all. Wherever she had been for the last sixteen years she would have seen her share of horror, would have had her life changed as irreversibly as Lucien's own. This brooch would only open an old wound, he thought, would only serve as a reminder of the past they could never recapture. If Mei Lin was returned to him, then he wanted them to try to turn over a new leaf, together, not to linger in the haze of blood-soaked memories. And if Mei Lin were truly dead, lost to him forever, he knew he could not keep it. Sir Patrick had exacted a promise from him, a vow he could not break. All the jewels Lucien had inherited upon his father's death would pass to his new wife, but this one was too important, too precious, to be given over to her, for however lovely she might be Lucien knew already he would not love her, and to give this symbol of enduring love to her would be, he thought, an insult to Mei Lin's memory.

Still, though, the brooch deserved a home, and he could think of no one he trusted more than Mrs. Beazley. She would treasure it, and treat it gently, and it would shine when she wore it. And perhaps she would look at it and hear the words he could not say, feel the depth of his regard, his gratitude for her.

"It's beautiful," she said, tracing her fingertips along the edges of the flower almost reverently. "Was it...was it hers?"

Lucien frowned; he was quite certain he'd never told Mrs. Beazley about his wife, and he could not imagine that Patrick or Matthew would have broken his confidence.

"You told me once," she added, seeing the confusion on his face, "that you fell in love with the wrong girl and you lost her. Was this meant for her?"

A gentle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was not treachery, then, or a loose tongue that had told her of his wife. She had only listened to him, and taken every word he spoke to her to heart, and he felt a great swell of affection rise up in his chest at the thought.

"It was," he answered truthfully. "But I never had the chance to give it to her. I should like for it to have a good home, now. To be looked after, and kept safe."

"Well," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you."

_You aren't the only one who lost someone, _he wanted to tell her then. _Perhaps we can find a way forward, you and I. Perhaps we can lay the past to rest. _

"No, thank you, Jean," he answered softly.


	15. Chapter 15

_31 December 1958_

"It's just a party, Your Majesty," Matthew said gruffly as they made their way down the corridor, towards the stairs, towards the foyer, towards the ball in the glittering grand hall, the last place on earth Lucien wanted to be at the moment.

"Some party," he grumbled back. Yes, technically, it was just a party, just music and flowing champagne and a hall full of important people in their finest clothes, everything in that room glittering and expensive and faintly nauseating. Lucien couldn't recall when last he'd rung in the New Year with any sort of fervor, let alone with the grandiosity the castle festivities promised. Lucien was hardly in the mood for such celebrations; it was cold and dark in the bleak midwinter, and he was now firmly ensconced in his new role, inundated with paperwork and public remarks and the trivialities of running his kingdom, and still no word of his family. What exactly did he have to celebrate, at present? The ending of a year that had stolen his father and his freedom, returned him to his home in golden chains? The promise of a new year that would only bring him more of the same?

Sir Patrick had hinted quite strongly that there would be several young, single ladies of notable houses present at the ball this evening, and while Lucien had been adamant that he would not even contemplate discussing a new wife when he did not know yet what had become of the first his Prime Minister had blithely informed him that the young ladies would be expecting a dance, and that to disappoint them would be to make enemies of their powerful families, a poor choice so early in his reign. Lucien thought that surely the man had more important things to do than oversee his King's dance card and yet Patrick remained stubbornly meddlesome, and Lucien had no idea how to put him off. He had resigned himself to one dance; he had decided that at the end of the evening he would find the quietest young lady in the room, and make one turn around the hall, and after that he would determine whether or not to repeat the performance. He had not danced since Singapore, and though he knew his feet would remember the steps he was still not looking forward to making such a display of himself, to holding another woman close.

At least Matthew would be with him; the castle was fairly crawling with security, but as Head of the Palace Guard - and an old friend - Matthew had taken it upon himself to stand watch over his King's person for the evening. Lucien thought they must have made a quite sight, the pair of them, as they slowly descended the stairs; Matthew's dress uniform glittered with ribbons and medals and his cane made an eerie sound each time it tapped the stairs, and Lucien walked beside him in a finely cut tuxedo, both of them going a bit grey at the temples, both of them old soldiers, weary and proud. Their descent went unremarked upon for the guests had all been herded into the grand hall, but the swish of a skirt around a doorway to the left caught Lucien's attention, and he was afforded the briefest glimpse of a green, floral-patterned dress and perfectly pressed curls. He did not need to see her face to know that it was _her_, that she was there, watching over him, that she had seen him. And though he did not wish to examine his own feelings too closely, he could not deny that the thought was a comforting one. If he could not speak to her, at least he knew that she was near, his touchstone in this uncertain life that had been thrust upon him.

"Here we go," Lucien breathed as they reached the vast doors of the hall, flung open to reveal the opulent party before them. A herald had been standing watch by the door, announcing all the various notables as they arrived, and the man jumped to attention when he caught sight of his King. As Lucien reached the threshold a great fanfare sounded; he scowled and beside him Matthew grinned tightly, recognizing and understanding his discomfort at once. And then the herald introduced him in a great booming voice, and there came the whisper of five hundred bodies bowing in perfect unison.

He stepped into that hallowed silence, waiters and nobles alike waiting breathlessly for his permission to continue in their revelry.

"My friends," Lucien called, the words bitter in his mouth, "thank you for joining us for this celebration. Please, don't let me stop you." He waved to the band; they hesitated for a moment, somewhat thrown by his plain words, but his gesture was unmistakable and as soon as they'd regained their composure they struck up a tune. The gathered notables righted themselves, whispers turning to a roar of conversation in a moment, those who had previously been engaged in dancing sliding back into the place, and just like that the party was in full swing, and no one was paying him any mind. Which was just how he wanted it, after all.

* * *

There had been an incident in the corridor; one of the lads tasked with drifting through the party carrying a tray of champagne flutes had spilled the whole bloody thing, wine and glass spilling across the marble, and Jean had seen to it at once, tidied it away quickly, before anyone who mattered took notice. No harm had been done but the young man was clearly shaken, and Jean had sent him back to the kitchen to collect himself - and another tray of champagne - before returning to his duties. She lingered, even after her task was through, hiding in an out-of-the-way corner of the hall, watching the party before her.

There were more than a dozen doors leading from the vast, cavernous hall; some opened onto the foyer, some opened on corridors leading to loo, and the pair at the back of the hall looked out onto the exquisitely manicured gardens. The doors had all been thrown open, save for the one behind her; this one was reserved for staff scurrying to and from the kitchens, and it was partially hidden from view by a large crimson tapestry. Jean stood behind that tapestry now, looking out at the guests and the music and the dancing and the fine food, a strange sort of heaviness in her heart. She wore one of her favorite dresses; green and covered in a pattern of flowers, it hugged the curve of her waist and flared out into a beautiful skirt that swirled around her calves as she moved, the cap sleeves and the neckline demure but not prudish. She loved the dress, and the way it made her feel when she wore it, but she could not deny that compared to the evening gowns of the ladies in that hall she looked quite plain indeed. They belonged to different worlds, Jean and the people she served. She would never be granted such beauty, such grandeur. But she could stand for a moment and bask in the loveliness of it all, and so she did. She had always held a deep appreciation for beautiful things.

Her eyes sought him out quite without her realizing it; strange, she thought, how quickly that had become a habit. He was easy to spot, tall and broad and handsome in his tuxedo, standing in quiet conversation with Sir Patrick and the daughter of one of the kingdom's most influential Dukes. The Lady Ann Whitcombe was perhaps thirty years old, and a great beauty. She had married the second son of a lesser house and had by all accounts been quite content in her marriage, but her husband had been killed in automobile accident two years before. Jean had never heard a single ill word spoken about Lady Ann, but watching the woman talking to the King now left Jean uneasy. It was said that her father was eager to see her married off again, and that she herself was not opposed to the notion. She was young, still, and as Jean watched the King said something that made Lady Ann smile, a pretty, beguiling smile that made Jean clench her hands together at her sides. Lady Ann's honey brown hair tumbled around her shoulders, her features delicate and unmarred by strain, her dress a rich, brilliant shade of purple and cut in the latest style. Wealth and education had given her a proud, self-confident bearing, and she presented the perfect picture of dignified elegance. Everything that Jean wasn't, Lady Ann _was, _and as Jean watched the King held out his hand to her, and the Lady took it, and they walked together towards the dance floor.

The other partygoers made space for them immediately; it would be all over the society pages the following morning, Jean knew. A photographer for the newspaper was flitting through the crowd, and he would no doubt obtain several snaps of the King dancing with the most eligible noble lady in the kingdom. They made a fine pair, graceful and demure, he so proud and she so lovely. And why shouldn't they? The King was as yet unmarried and Jean knew that Parliament were having fits over his lack of an heir. Perhaps he now held the answer to his dilemma in his arms. Lady Ann would be the perfect match for him, Jean was sure, and the moment he produced a child the whole kingdom would breathe a sigh of relief.

It was perfectly proper, what he was doing, and yet Jean turned away and slipped back toward the kitchens with her heart heavy in her chest. She had no claim over him, could never hope to, and yet still, she lamented. That lament troubled her, more than words could say.

* * *

"I want to thank you, Lady Ann," Lucien said softly as they danced together. "You've saved me from a deeply unpleasant conversation."

Lady Ann's smiles were lovely and frequent but they did not quite reach her eyes, and no laughter passed her lips. She offered him such a smile now, following his lead in perfect time across the polished floor, her hand soft in his own. "I might say the same to you, Your Majesty," she answered him. "My father has been salivating over the prospect of our meeting just as much as Sir Patrick has, and this little dance will quiet him, for a bit."

Lucien spun her deftly in time to the music and then pulled her in close once more. "But you've no interest at all in marrying me, do you, Lady Ann?" he asked shrewdly. Oh, she had been nothing but kind, saying all the right words in all the right places, but her heart had not been in it, and in fact he sensed a reticence about her that set his own fretful heart at rest.

"No more than you have in marrying me, Your Majesty."

Her forthrightness surprised him; as he had spoken to Lady Ann and Sir Patrick together he had rather got the sense that she kept her opinions to herself - if she had any of her own at all - but it seemed the relative privacy of this conversation had made her bold.

"Sir Patrick wants to see you married, sir. My father wants the same for me. And what we want doesn't factor into the bargain, does it?"

He stared at her, somewhat aghast, troubled by how easily she had read him, the whole situation, by how gracefully she had resigned herself to her lack of control over her own future.

"I would not presume to press a lady who was not interested," he said carefully.

"No, I'm sure you wouldn't. But you must marry someone, and I must do as my father wishes. If we are forced together, I think you and I might be friends in time, Your Majesty. Perhaps that would be enough."

"Perhaps it would, Lady Ann." Yes, if he was given no choice, if he had to marry again, he would at least like to marry an agreeable woman, a woman he could have a conversation with, and Lady Ann was the least offensive of the options that had so far been presented to him. Perhaps it would not ever be love, but perhaps he could make do.

Still they danced, though the song was drawing to a close, and she leaned a little closer to him, then. "My friends call me Joy, Your Majesty."

"All right, then," he said, smiling for the first time all evening. "Thank you for this dance, Joy."

She gave a little curtsy and then turned away, and his eyes followed her progress, his heart full of questions.


	16. Chapter 16

_31 December 1958_

She heard him before she saw him. The distinct _thump _of a body banging off the edge of a perfectly polished worktop, the muttered curses, the steady clap of two very shiny shoes bearing him ever nearer to her. Jean's heart dropped; the last thing she wanted, in this moment, was to speak to him.

It was well past 1:00 in the morning, and all the guests had been sent home and all her tasks had been completed for the evening, but she could not yet face her bed. She likewise had not been willing to make her way up to the roof; it was bitterly cold, and she had not wanted to see _him, _had not wanted to risk finding herself alone with him and her grief. She had been, up to that point, sitting alone on a stool in an out of the way corner of the kitchen, sipping a tepid cup of tea while the wireless played softly beside her. The cooks liked to have a bit of music while they worked, and Jean had enjoyed listening to it for a few moments, letting the words wash over her, and ease some of her discontent.

It was well and good, she had decided, that the King should take an interest in Lady Ann. He could marry, and spend his attentions on someone who was appropriate, someone who could match him, who befitted his elevated station. And in time perhaps the castle would filled with the sound of children's voices. In time, perhaps, he would forget all about her, and she would walk along the battlements in the darkness unimpeded, as she was meant to. What was _not _well and good, however, was her King's behavior earlier in the evening.

Jean had witnessed the entire bloody affair from start to finish, and her hands were still shaking. Near the end of the evening Sir Patrick had introduced the King to the British Ambassador, a polished man named Sir Richard Lambeth. Jean had been overseeing the serving of the last of the champagne in the hall when she heard Sir Patrick explain that Sir Richard had been in Singapore, just like the King. She had watched - discreetly, of course - as Sir Richard waxed lyrical about the tremendous work the Brits had been doing in Singapore in the years after the war, watched as her King's face grew redder and redder with each word, a vein jumping out in his neck as anger began to build within him. Sir Patrick, perhaps noticing the warning signs, had attempted to steer the King away, but it was too late, and the vitriol had spilled out of him in waves.

"Let him finish!" the King had said, his tone dripping with disdain, and around them partygoers had turned to watch in avid fascination. "He was talking about the terrific work the Poms are doing in Singapore since the war. Of course, that depends on how you define famine, neglect and revenge killing, really, but none of that, none of that is Dick's fault." His voice was bitter, biting off each word, the sheer rage in his tone chilling Jean to the core. Everyone within twenty of feet of them was listening and others, sensing trouble, had begun to drift closer while an eerie silence descended upon them, but the King was just beginning to warm to the subject.

"Of course, Singapore is just one in a long line of complete stuff-ups. What about the complete bloody balls-up at Gallipoli? If your lot hadn't been such cowards-"

Sir Patrick had successfully separated them, then, and the ambassador had left in a huff, and the King had gone straight to the nearest waiter, and downed a glass of champagne in a single gulp. Jean had turned away, her stomach roiling with shame. How could he have _done_ such a thing, she asked herself. How could he have spoken to the man in such a way, conducted himself so boorishly and threatened his country's relationship with their strongest ally? He had only just been crowned King and now here he was, drunk and picking fights. At least she assumed he was drunk; he appeared to be, and perhaps the appearance alone was damning enough.

And now, now he was stumbling into the kitchen, and disappointment surged within her as she took in the sight of him. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, and he was cursing as he struggled with his bowtie. He finally managed to wrench it free at almost the exact same moment he caught sight of her; carelessly he threw his tie aside, and came to a stop just in front of her. Jean slid to her feet and gave him the shortest curtsy she could manage, reaching at once for his tie; it wouldn't do to just leave it there, no matter how little he seemed to care for appearances.

"I can tell by your frown that you heard what happened earlier," he said, his voice heavy and yet somehow still defensive.

"Nevermind that," she answered him tightly. "I suppose you want something to eat?"

"I just came to see if there were any of those lovely little canapes left. I can fetch them myself, Jean." He called her by her name; he had been doing that more and more of late, and while sometimes it made her glad to hear it, now it only brought on a fresh wave of displeasure. He was not meant to be so familiar; he was not meant to do a lot of things, and yet he seemed determined to make every possible mistake.

"Sit," she said, pointing the stool she had so recently vacated, only adding, "please," when she realized that the tone she'd used with her King was the same one she'd previously reserved for Jack when he'd been particularly naughty. "I'll get them."

He heaved a great sigh but did as he was bid, settling onto the stool while she went to fetch him down a plate.

* * *

He could not bear it, her obvious displeasure. In the moment he had felt righteous, full of a great, towering fury, but then the fog of rage had lifted and he found himself alone in a sea of strangers, watching him warily as if he were some sort of rabid dog, poised to attack any of them at any given moment. They did not _know _him, did not understand him, could never hope to do so, and he had felt so frightfully lonesome, so hideously empty. Mercifully his little outburst had come near the end of the party and so he was able to avoid conversation in the aftermath, but he had felt their eyes upon him, had felt the weight of his missteps. He had forgotten himself, in the moment, had forgotten his duty to his people, to his crown, had forgotten his responsibilities and the future of his nation, had forgotten everything except his own grief.

And now, to make matters worse, it was plain that Jean was cross with him. _That _was what he found most unbearable. Jean, who had until now been nothing but lovely, a piece of comfort to him, Jean who looked so beautiful in her flowing green dress, wrapped in a pale cardigan with the brooch he had given her pinned proudly to her chest. He had seen that brooch and his heart had leapt, to think that she treasured his gift, that she wore it willingly, but sorrow had overwhelmed him just as quickly when he saw her frown. He had fallen short of her expectations, and her disappointment compounded with his own shattered heart left him feeling petulant and out of sorts. She did not know, truly, what he had lost, and she, like all the rest, could not comprehend what a struggle it was, to wake up each day and find himself living this life he had for so long railed against.

In a moment she was back, passing him a plate with her lips still set in that firm line, and something deep within his chest shattered at the sight of her.

"Go on, then," he said, taking the plate and popping a canape into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, swallowed, and then continued. "Tell me what's on your mind. Speak plainly, Mrs. Beazley, God knows you want to."

She frowned even harder, if such a thing were possible, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That was tactless." He had told her to speak plainly and she bore in relentlessly, making it clear she intended to do just that.

"What on earth were you thinking?" she demanded.

"I embarrassed myself," he answered glumly, knowing it was true. "I embarrassed all of you. All of us." And he had, knew he had, knew that word of his outburst would be all over the society pages come morning, that word would spread throughout his kingdom and to the world beyond that he was a drunk and a brawler and utterly lacking in refinement.

"Oh, I don't care about the embarrassment," she said, and _Christ_, but she was lovely like this, the color high in her cheeks, the words spilling forth from her with such passion; she stood tall and proud and he was left utterly swept away by her. "It's the lecturing I don't like," she continued, "and the fact that you think you're the only one who matters. Almost everyone in that room lost someone or something in the war. You're not the only one. You embarrassed yourself. But you insulted the rest of us."

Her words landed like a bomb in the midst of his heart, left his ears ringing and his hands trembling. She was right; of course she was right. She always was. And she had, eloquently and with great heat, just put him firmly in his place in a way no one had dared to do for months. The petulant sense of self-righteousness deserted him utterly as she spoke, and he was left feeling only remorse.

"I'm sorry, Jean," he said, and he noted the flicker of surprise in her eyes, as if she hadn't imagined it would be so easy to draw an apology from him. "I certainly never meant to insult you. And you're right, I was only thinking of myself." _A__nd my wife, and my little girl, and Derek, and everyone else we lost in Singapore. "_And I know I'm not the only person who lost someone."

Her eyes shone at his words, sorrow swirling in their depths, and though her arms crossed a little tighter it seemed to him that something in her face softened, just a bit, at his words.

"Where did he serve? Your husband."

It was a question Lucien had been meaning to ask her from the moment he learned that her husband had been a soldier. Had they ever been in the same place, Lucien and the man Jean loved? Had they stood shoulder to shoulder, guns blazing? Had Lucien treated the man's wounds in the dingy cabin that served as an infirmary in Changi?

"The Solomons," she said simply, and Lucien's heart sank; he had not been there himself, but he knew enough, knew how wretched that campaign had been. "He was killed during the invasion of Tulagi, in 1942. It took them six months to tell me, and by then he'd been buried there, along with the rest of his unit." Jean leaned back against the counter behind her, her eyes far away. Lucien all but held his breath as he listened to her speak, the canapes utterly forgotten, an almost hallowed silence filling the breaths between Jean's words. In that moment he was a King no longer, was utterly unconcerned with his kingdom or affairs of state, was focused, most completely, on the beautiful woman in front of him, and her grief, so like his own.

"I used to worry about him," she said, "buried there all alone, so far from home."

"Used to?" Lucien asked her softly.

"I realized, after a while, that he isn't alone. Those men he fought with, they were as good as his brothers. And they're with him. They'll look after him for me. I'm sure you felt the same way about the men you served with."

A lump rose in the back of Lucien's throat, faces of those friends he'd lost swimming through his mind for the first time in a very long while. Thirteen years since the end of the war, and yet he could recall those faces so clearly, their names, their hopes, the bitter, horrible ways they'd died. And his family, his darling girls, perished in the sea - or worse, perhaps, for he did not know yet for a certainty what had become of them - had suffered, too, and grief laid heavy upon his shoulders.

"I did," he said simply.

"And you wanted better for them than what they got."

She did not understand, he realized. When he had lashed out at Sir Richard he had been thinking only of his family, but Jean had no way to know that. She thought it was love of his brothers-in-arms that compelled him, and she had found some way to come to terms with that, and in that moment he loved her for it.

"Yes." He could not tell her the truth about his family, not now, not yet, but she was right, too, that he still grieved for his fallen friends, that their treatment during the war still bit at him, a grief that would never quite dissipate.

"These wounds will heal, Your Majesty," she told him gently. "They all do, in time. They may not set straight, they may pain you in bad weather, but they'll heal."

For a moment he stared up at her, her shining eyes, her softly parted lips, overcome by the tenderness she'd bestowed on him; she had called him to account for his bad behavior but he rather thought she had forgiven him, too, and to hear her speak to him so gently, so reassuringly now, called to his heart in a way that no one else had done for many a long year. Slowly he slid to his feet, and held out his hand to her. The wireless was playing softly beside them, and she was so beautiful, and so kind, and so _good, _and he could not stop himself.

"Dance with me, Jean," he said.

He took a step forward, his hand still outstretched, but she only stared at him, her eyes gone wide with some emotion he could not name, and then she shook her head.

"You shouldn't dance with me," she told him, and strange as it was, he almost thought she sounded sad as she said it. "You should dance with Lady Ann. You looked good together."

So she had seen him, then. She had seen him dancing with Joy, had seen him smile, had drawn her own conclusions. What she did not know, could not have known, was that he had only done it because he must, because he had made his promises to Sir Patrick, because he had been desperate to escape a dreadful conversation and Lady Ann had presented a convenient avenue for him to disengage. The desire he felt now could not have been more different, and he felt compelled to tell her so.

"I don't want to dance with her," he answered. "I only want to dance with you."

The moment stretched between them, a silken chord stretched taut with yearning, with doubt, but then Jean reached out and took his hand, and his heart sang in his chest. Deftly he pulled her close, one hand holding hers, one hand placed gently at the small of her back. They were close, too close, closer than he had stood with Joy during the party, and she was following his lead, step by step, as he turned them gracefully around the tiled floor in the empty kitchen. There were no waiters, no band, no glittering ballgowns; his tuxedo was in a shambles and her dress, while beautiful, was far plainer than any he had seen so far this evening, but there was such beauty in that place, in that moment, in _her._ As they moved her skirt swirled around her calves, and he leaned in and she met him, close, so _close,_ and she smelled of bread and flowers, smelled of _home. _And wasn't that strange, he thought, for he had not felt at _home_ anywhere, with anyone, in such a long time. In fact, he wasn't sure he ever had.

Beneath his hand she was small, delicate, as graceful as any lady. Someone had taught her how to dance, and properly, and he was grateful for it. He smiled down at her, overcome with the sheer _rightness _he felt in the moment, the way everything seemed to be slotting into place, and she answered with a tentative smile of her own, soft and hopeful. _How did I get so lucky? _He wondered as still they swayed together. How could it be that here, in this place that felt so much like a prison, he could have discovered her, this woman strong and lovely, brave enough to tell him the truth, kind enough to share her own, encouraging him, always, to do better, and yet seeming to accept him for the man that he was? Jean didn't care about his crown, or his riches, or his power; she had always, from the first, cared just for _him, _and he was beginning to think that care might be the only thing that could save him from himself. He would not cause such a scene again, he knew, for always in the future he would picture her face in this moment, and he knew he would do whatever he could to make her proud, and never disappoint her.

_Oh, _but she was close; her hair brushed against his chin and he knew that if he bowed his head he could easily press his lips against the corner of her mouth and he _wanted_ it, _Christ_ but he wanted it. He held himself back for her sake; he had pushed her too far already, and this moment was too beautiful, too miraculous to shatter with such reckless haste. And so he only held her, moving gently together, feeling the warmth and softness of her against him until at last the song drew to a close, and they swayed to a stop.

"Thank you, Jean," he murmured softly. She stepped back from him, blushing furiously, and he grinned, wondering if her thoughts had taken the same course as his own. He had resolved not to kiss her lips or her cheek, but he could not let the moment end without showing her in some way the depth of his regard for her, and so he took her hand, the hand he still held, and lifted it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against her skin.

But it seemed this was not the right thing to do; Jean drew in a sharp breath and recoiled from him as if she'd been burned by the touch of his lips, crossing her arms tightly around herself once more.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said, grief and doubt shining in her eyes.

"No," he agreed, somewhat heavily. "But I wanted to, Jean."

She stared at him, aghast, and he felt all the joy of a moment before slowly suffocate beneath the weight of his crown. It had been an indulgence, to dance with her, to imagine, even for a moment, that he could be allowed to hold her. He had placed her in a terrible position, he knew, but he could not quite bring himself to regret it, even now when she had remembered the difference in their stations and he was himself so desperate to forget it.

Jean sighed, and her shoulders sagged. "You should go to bed," she told him gently. She reached for his bowtie, lying in a heap on the counter, and pressed it into his hands. "I'll clean up here."

Desperately he cast about for something to say, some way to explain himself, explain his feelings, explain why he had done such a thing, but she turned away from him, and in that gesture he seemed to hear the slamming of a distant door. Jean had made her choice, made it for both of them, and he knew he must respect it.

And so he only hung his head, and departed in silence.


	17. Chapter 17

_14 January 1959_

"Bless me, father, for I have sinned."

The old familiar words tripped from her lips haltingly, hesitatingly; it had been over a month since her last confession, and as she sat still and troubled in the confessional with her rosary dripping from her fingertips Jean felt a certain sense of dread settle over her. Often confession brought her clarity, peace of mind, the ritual itself a cleansing one designed to help her cast off her burdens. What she had come to confess today, however, was a heavy, precious thing; the longings of her heart had turned sinful and wretched and yet she did not wish to part with them, for to give up on those dreams would mean to let go of hope as much as grief.

"What are you sins, my child?"

Jean did not give confession in the big cathedral at the heart of the city; she preferred plainer, more humble surroundings, and Father Morton had been her priest for many a long year. They got on rather well together, and if anyone must hear the truth of her heart she would rather it be him than anyone else.

"I have been envious," she said slowly, "and proud. I have coveted that which does not belong to me."

"My child-"

Jean decided to press on, to lay it all out now, quickly, and prevent Father Morton from making any suggestions until she had told him the truth in full.

"There is a man, father," she said, and the old priest fell silent at her words. "He is a good man, and...and a handsome man, and I have grown to care for him. But he is not a man I can have. I have coveted him, and envied the woman who can be with him freely. I have felt pride in myself, to think that he might care for me more than he does for her."

"I see," Father Morton said slowly. "And you are certain that no match can be made between this man and yourself?"

She almost laughed aloud. _Yes, _she was absolutely certain; there was no way. King Thomas had taken a commoner to wife, yes, but she had been foreign and wealthy, well-bred and well-educated, refined and of an appropriate age. She had presented him with a son, and the people had grown to accept her, to love her, in time; or at least, most of them had, and those who did not approve did not have long to linger in their distress for Queen Genevieve had died quite young. The circumstances could not have been more different, now. Jean knew her own worth and would never have cause to doubt it, but she likewise knew that kings did not spend their affections on the likes of her. The daughter of farmers, widowed, with two grown children and a somewhat checkered past, she'd celebrated her forty-fourth birthday the month before. And each of things was a mark against her, another reason why the King could not possibly be allowed to look her way. He needed an heir and a suitably appropriate wife to give one to him. The past that had made Jean into the woman she was so proud to be, that past was a burden that no amount of chicanery from the Press Office could overcome. The King needed to be strong, needed to demonstrate to his people that he would do what was right for the kingdom; marrying her was most certainly _wrong, _and Jean knew it. Besides, she reminded herself as she had done more than once over the previous fortnight, she could not say for certain whether the King's affections ran so deep as marriage in the first place. He had been kind and gentle, _yes,_ had held her so close and kissed her hand so tenderly, but he had been drinking that night, and their emotions had been high; what if he longed only for comfort, and took it from any quarter? The man could be capricious and unpredictable, and Jean did not know, not truly, what it was he wanted from her.

"I'm absolutely certain, father," she told the priest. "It cannot be."

"In that case, my child, the easiest way to avoid temptation is to remove it. If you do not see this man, perhaps in time these feelings will lessen."

Somehow, somewhere deep in her heart, Jean had known that the priest's advice would run along those lines. She had heard such words from him before, in regards to other, lesser temptations. But how could she remove this particular obstacle from her path? Leaving the castle was quite out of the question, she thought; this place had been her home for fifteen years, and she was happy here. More than that, it provided lodgings along with a healthy stipend the likes of which she could not command if she went to work somewhere else. Without a husband to help support her she would struggle, she was sure, alone in the city. She did not want to trade her beautiful suite of rooms, the manicured gardens, the familiar stones of the battlements, the little cache of money saved up for travels she intended to undertake _one day_ for the hard-scrabble life of a cook or a housekeeper somewhere in the city, for a dingy flat and the clamor of the streets. She did not want to leave her life, her friends, her _home. _And she did not want to leave _him, _not truly.

"That would be...difficult," she said slowly, though she tried to think it through, tried to discern whether there were any steps she could take to lessen her distress. Perhaps she could forgo her evening walks along the rooftop, and perhaps she could be less forthcoming when she did find herself alone with him. Perhaps she could excuse herself from any room he was in, and refuse to engage him on personal topics in the future. Perhaps she could turn the cleaning of his suite over to one of the other girls, and perhaps, in time, with a bit more distance, these feelings would begin to fade. That prospect was troubling; a piece of her heart had rejoiced in the sudden rush of affection she felt for him, in the touch of his hand, the thought that he might care for her as no one else had done for so very long, the thought that she was not entirely beyond the reach of love. She _wanted_ that love, she ached for it, but her mind knew what her heart did not, that this love was not hers to claim.

"But not impossible?"

_Maybe the Lady Ann will distract him, _she thought as she turned the beads of her rosary over and over between her fingers. _Maybe in time he will not seek me out, and we can both carry on. Maybe he does not care for me at all. _

"No," she agreed. "Not impossible."

"Then do this thing, my child. Withdraw from your temptation, and say a rosary each night for the next seven days. May the Lord grant you wisdom, and peace."

* * *

"I understand that things are taking longer than you expected, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said, his conciliatory tone grating against Lucien's nerves. "But these things always take time. There are no records, and there is still a great deal of confusion in that area. Our people _will _find your family, sir. In time."

That had been his answer each time this particular topic was raised, and Lucien had grown tired of hearing it. Likely Sir Patrick was quite tired of saying it as well, but Lucien would not allow the matter of his family to be forgotten. A promise had been made, in good faith, and he was determined to hold up his end of the bargain only so long as Sir Patrick did the same. The Prime Minister had come to him this afternoon for their weekly meeting, and so far this one had been no different than any of the others Lucien had endured previously. The stated purpose of these meetings was to discuss the matters that had been set before Parliament, though Lucien always asked for a report on the investigation into his family's whereabouts and Sir Patrick always seemed to find the time to bring up the subject of Lady Ann. It was not a subject Lucien wanted to engage with him on; Lady Ann was perfectly nice, but it was not her face he saw when he closed his eyes, was not her companionship he longed for.

No, he longed for _Jean, _her steady, practical wisdom, the softness of her face when she smiled, the warmth of her in his arms. It was Jean he wanted to speak to in the stillness of the evening, Jean he feared he had wronged and so desperately wanted to please. He had not had a moment alone with her since their dance, and he was beginning to fear he had overplayed his hand, that she did not care for him so deeply as he did for her, that his attentions had caused her distress. Perhaps Sir Patrick was right, and he ought to focus himself on Lady Ann, or _Joy _as she was affectionately known by her friends. Sir Patrick had explained that little oddity to him; _her mother's name was Ann as well, _he'd said, _and she was her parents' only child. Her father called her Joy, and the name rather stuck. But it's far too common for a lady of her standing. _

_Ann_ was rather a common name, too, Lucien thought, but he had delicately let the subject drop. He had no such sense of decorum where the matter of his family was involved, however.

"Do you have a time frame, at least? Any idea at all when we might know something?"

"I have only been told _soon, _Your Majesty."

_Soon. _Lucien was growing to hate that word.

"And since I have no new information to give you on that point, I would like to direct your attention to another matter."

What would it be this time, Lucien wondered, the factory workers' union or subsidies for farmers? Or, perhaps most galling at all, the repeated attempts to bankrupt the National Health Service in hopes of privatizing the whole industry? Though he had only been king for a bare three months Lucien had already learned that he and his Prime Minister did not quite see eye to eye on any of those points. Lucien was sympathetic to the unions and an adamant supporter of the NHS, and Sir Patrick...well, Sir Patrick was sympathetic to his own purse.

"I believe I have mentioned that the intelligence service has intercepted several attempts on your life since your return?"

_That_ was not at all what Lucien had been expecting him to say. He nodded, mutely, and waited for the bad news.

"I'm afraid we've identified a credible threat. There's a radical anti-monarchist group we've been keeping tabs on, and we've received some information that they are planning to attack your speech at the opening of the new hospital next month."

It was rather too early in the evening for a drink, and Lucien could not help but lament his lack of scotch, in that moment. He had been shot at before, of course, had more than once encountered people who had done their level best to kill him, but never his own countrymen. He could understand the anti-monarchist sentiment - he rather agreed with them, if he were being honest with himself - but that they should think _murder_ was the only way to achieve their goals was deeply distressing. At least on the battlefield he had been armed and prepared, had been able to see his enemy, to face them. In this new murky world of domestic intrigue he was rather at a loss; the enemy could be anyone, anywhere, and they would strike when he was least prepared. A battle, he thought, would have been preferable.

"I suppose you're doing something about that?"

He tried to make the question sound casual, but he was sure he'd failed quite miserably.

"We've picked up a few of their operatives, but some of the key players have gone to ground, and we can't seem to find them anywhere. The area where you're set to give the speech is too open, and it would be all but impossible to guarantee your safety. I must ask you, sir, to reconsider."

"Could we move the speech to another day?"

Lucien did not like the idea of retreating from public view at the first sign of trouble. He was a new king and he wanted his people to see him, and he wanted, very much, to stand before them and speak earnestly of the merits of the NHS, and the new hospital they'd built. He wanted his people to know that he believed in them, that he wanted to help them. And besides, hiding was not in his nature. If he went ahead with the speech and someone _did_ come to attack him, perhaps the security services could capture these missing operatives then, and be done with the lot of them. The palace guards who dogged Lucien's every step were exceptional, and he was not without skills of his own. No, he had no intention of cancelling the speech.

"I'm afraid not, sir. The speech is scheduled for the day before the hospital opens. If we delay, we would have to keep the hospital closed to ensure your safety, and that would be unacceptable. Certain preparations have to be made before a royal visit, and these people would simply adjust their plans, whatever the day."

"I won't cancel," Lucien said firmly.

"Sir-"

"That's my decision. The speech goes ahead."

Lucien personally had no taste for giving orders, but some part of him remained _Major Blake, _still, and he _was_ the King. Much as he might like to Sir Patrick could not overrule him, not on this matter.

"We will take every precaution, then," Sir Patrick said slowly, "but it must be said that we will do so under protest. I do not think this is wise, sir."

"Your concerns have been noted," Lucien told him. "Now. Is there anything else?"


	18. Chapter 18

_6 February 1959_

It was bitterly cold; not entirely unexpected, for early February. A faint smattering of snow lay on the ground, glittering brightly in the early afternoon sun. The King had left the castle to go and give his speech at the opening of the new hospital, and while Jean wished him well in her heart she had not given him her regards in person. She had, in fact, not spoken one single word to the King beyond a simple greeting of _Your Majesty_ in the last three weeks. She had not walked along the battlements in the darkness as she was wont to do - though given just how cold it had been, that was no great sacrifice, really, to trade the bitter chill of the stones for the warmth of her suite. Each time he entered a room she left it as quickly as she was able, and each time she tried to ignore the way his eyes lingered on her, his gaze heavy and troubled. To his credit the King had not pushed her; he was an intelligent man, and no doubt he realized that their continued separation was by design, and respected her apparent desire for space.

That thought troubled her, a very great deal.

_Yes, _the priest had told her to remove herself from temptation and _yes_ the proper course would be to keep her distance and incite any further feeling from him, or draw attention to the many lapses in judgment they had indulged in during the early days of his tenure in the castle. _Yes,_ Jean was behaving exactly as she ought, but the thought that her King believed her to be disinterested in him, believed that she wanted no part of him, grieved her very soul. It was not an absence of affection that stayed her hand, but rather an overabundance of it; she cared for him too deeply to allow their friendship to continue, and risk both of their reputations and positions.

And yet, she had not withdrawn from him entirely; even if he never knew it, she was still the only one who cleaned his rooms. Technically such a task was below her station; as head of housekeeping she oversaw the maid staff, and did not often act as one of them. She had decided long before that an exception must be made in this case to protect his reputation, and her opinion on that matter had not changed. It would not do, she thought, for one of the other maids to see what she saw now.

Jean entered his rooms each day just after lunch, and each day she followed a precise pattern. She walked through each room and gathered any rubbish, tying it neatly in a bin bag. As she went through she also bagged his laundry, to be sent downstairs. Then she dusted each and every surface, wiped down the drinks cart and replaced the glasses, vacuumed twice a week and washed the windows monthly. She cleaned the mirrors and the counters in the little bathroom and made sure the whole place sparkled, but first, before anything else, she went and made his bed.

That was where she lingered now, taking rather longer than was necessary to strip the old sheets in preparation for laying down a fresh set. This was where he slept, here in this grand, handcrafted four-poster that while smaller than the one in the suite that had belonged to his father nonetheless dwarfed the little bed in Jean's own room. _A big bed for a big man, _she thought, blushing, though even a man as tall and broad as he might feel lonesome, lying there alone. The sheets were twisted and tangled and smelled faintly of sweat despite the chill outside; what could torment him so, she wondered, that he should sleep so fitfully? Her thoughts drifted, as they so often did, to the woman he'd spoken of, the girl he'd loved and lost. What sort of woman had she been? Jean wondered, not for the first time. To catch his eye, to keep his attention so fully, to mean so much to him, she must have been special indeed, and yet she had been _lost_, and there had been something in the way the King spoke that word that told Jean whatever had befallen his mysterious love must have been permanent.

Jean knew a thing or two about that, how deep that grief could run, how time might dull the sting but never fully heal the wound. It was the sort of thing she'd rather like to share with him, and yet she knew she could not, must not; it was not her place to comfort him, or even try to understand him. _This _was her place; the only way she would ever enter this room was to clean it, and she knew she needed to be getting on with her work.

And so she pushed those thoughts aside, thoughts of his broad hands and his poor broken heart, and finished making the bed, smoothing her hands over the coverlet and smiling a bit as she examined her handiwork. She had the routine down almost to a science, and could clean all four rooms in just an hour. It was not a bad way to spend that quiet period after lunch, and there was plenty of time left for her remaining responsibilities.

Quickly she gathered up the sheets and slipped from the room, dropping the sheets in a pile by the door and then gathering up her bin bag. The study first, always, then the formal sitting room, then the bedroom, then the bathrom, that was her way. And so she went straight across and entered his study, a room that smelled faintly of cigarettes and printing ink, the desktop a shambles of paper she hardly dared look at, let alone touch. There was an empty bottle of scotch on the desk and she sighed as she tossed it in her bag; the third empty bottle this week, and it was only Friday. Honestly, she could hardly imagine how he got through the day, if he drank so much at night. It would be up to Peter to replace it - as valet stocking the drinks cart was one of his daily tasks - and she made a mental note to remind the boy. And then, then she reached for his wastepaper basket.

It was only by chance that she ever saw it; as the slips and scraps of paper came tumbling out of the basket and into the bin bag she only glanced at them, but somehow, by some force of fate, perhaps - though if that were true fate was cruel indeed - it caught her eye. She reached into the bag at once, and pulled out several sheets of paper all crumpled together. They had given her pause, for one very simple reason: she had seen her own name written there. Carefully she unraveled the pages and smoothed them on the corner of the desk, one by one. There were three of them, three pieces of the King's own stationary. On one he had written _Dearest Jean, _though apparently he had gotten no further than that before crumpling the page and tossing it aside. On another he had written _My Dear Mrs. Beazley, _though that one too he had crumpled up without writing another word. But the last one, _oh, _the last one began _My darling Jean, _and then continued, _I am afraid. _He had crossed that out, and written instead, _It grieves me to think, _but the cause of his grief remained unnamed for underneath that he had written in large, unsteady capitals _OH BUGGER THIS, AND BUGGER ME TOO. _And then, it would seem, he had cast it aside as well.

The other pages Jean dropped back into the bin bag but that one she held for a long moment, her heart full of questions. She could almost picture it, her King sitting at this desk late in the evening, bottle of scotch close to hand, his jacket and tie discarded, his hair a frightful mess, trying and failing to put his thoughts to paper. He had been _trying, _then, to reach out to her, to find some way to explain himself and his feelings, and she felt the prickle of tears in the corners of her eyes. _Oh, _but he could be a dear, sweet man when he wanted to be. The jade brooch he'd given her - which she'd regretfully put away after their dance and not worn since, though she looked at it often - was testament to just how tender his heart could be. And she had wounded him, knew she must have done, for he would not have even attempted to write to her had that tender heart not been full of questions.

Perhaps it had been unkind, she realized, to pull away from him without explanation. He was a clever man but a privileged one; perhaps he had not realized just how precarious their position truly was, and would need only for her to explain it to him before he agreed that this course of action was best. Perhaps, if she could only _tell _him the reasons for her decision sleep might come to him more easily, and the scotch might call less loudly. Perhaps there was a way forward for them both, without such distress.

But then again, perhaps not; those brief words spoke of yearning, of need, had come from a place deep within himself. She wished, oh but she wished that he had only finished his letter, that she could only know, for a certainty, what it was he wanted from her.

Behind her the main door to the suite banged open and she hastily shoved the scrap of paper into the pocket of the white apron she wore over her navy dress.

"Jean!" It was Mattie, her voice high-pitched, desperate. After the death of the old King there had been a terrible moment when Jean wasn't sure that Mattie would be kept on, but the decision had been made that given the sheer number of people working in the castle - and the inherent potential for accidents and illness - it made sense to keep a nurse on staff, and Jean was glad of it. Mattie was a dear, sweet girl, and Jean cared for her almost as if she were her own daughter. But it would not do for Mattie to see the letter, for there were some secrets Jean intended to keep to herself.

"In here!" she called back, wondering why Mattie seemed so distraught. The sun was shining, the King was out of the castle, everything was as it should be.

Or so she thought.

Mattie came racing into the room, tears staining her cheeks.

"There's just been a report on the wireless," she said breathlessly. "The King's been shot."

* * *

It was bitterly cold; Lucien supposed he should have expected that. It was only early February, and snow still sparkled bright on the little patches of grass beside the pavement. A small stage had been erected for him in front of the hospital now, a raised platform and a podium mounted with microphones, his speech typed out on crisp white paper and sitting in front of him.

Sir Patrick had expressed his concerns regarding the speech every day for the last two weeks and again in the car on the ride over, but there were soldiers and police everywhere, and Matthew Lawson was standing grim-faced just behind him, and all in all there had been no indication that anything nefarious was afoot. A crowd had gathered, members of the press and hospital staff and more than a few ordinary folk eager for a glimpse of their King. Lucien could only hope he would not disappoint them.

He wasn't entirely sure he looked particularly kingly; though he wore a fine-tailored suit it was completely covered beneath the dark navy pea coat he wore to ward off the chill. Peter had tried to get him to wear a scarf as well, crimson and cashmere and lovely; just to get the lad to stop talking Lucien had worn it until he slipped into the backseat of his towncar, and then he had promptly removed it and stuffed it in his pocket. This speech was about more than appearances to him; the hospital and the NHS itself were causes rather dear to his heart, and he thought the people ought to know that. He had worked with Rose Anderson from the Press Office, and they had together drafted a speech that extolled the virtues of National Health while also making reference to his own experience as a doctor. Jean had told him once that such information was important, that people ought to know he was a soldier and a doctor, ought to know how he'd spent the many long years of his self-imposed exile from this place. Jean thought it would endear him to the people; if only endearing himself to _her_ would come so easily.

It happened so quickly; he was in the midst of speaking, staring out at the crowd, hoping that he wasn't making a hash of things, and then there came the sharp retort of gunfire. That sound; he would know that sound anywhere, on any day, even a day so bright and otherwise pleasant as this. There was no time for him to process it, to even realized what had happened, for as the shots rang out - _pop pop pop pop pop, _five of them in rapid succession - a body slammed against him and he went tumbling down onto the platform.


	19. Chapter 19

_6 February 1959_

Of all the many locations where a man might possibly be shot, Lucien supposed it had been the best one, on the steps of a brand new, state-of-the-art hospital, full of the latest equipment, in front of a crowd that included doctors and nurses and one highly skilled army-medic-turned-surgeon. In that regard, he rather felt that the would-be assassins had chosen the moment for their treachery quite poorly, and he was grateful for it.

Everything had erupted into chaos, the moment the shots rang out. It was one of the young guards, a lad called Charlie, who had bodily flung Lucien to the platform, and it was Charlie, not Lucien, who had been struck by one of those bullets. The bullet had caught him in the side but still through the haze of pain he had maintained the presence of mind to protect his king; they'd gone tumbling down behind the podium together, Charlie's young comrade Danny joining him as he did his best to shield his sovereign while Matthew Lawson drew his gun and fired and bellowed orders to the other guards in the crowd. There was so much bloody noise; Lucien's ears had begun to ring, his hands had begun to shake, panic biting him while he lay confined beneath the bodies of the two young men who were sworn to protect him - no matter how foolish he thought that particular aim might have been. He had surged up, desperate for air, and that was when he'd seen the blood.

Training took over, then. He'd been a doctor far longer than he'd been a king, and having something to focus on besides his own distress helped to settle his nerves. Afterwards Patrick had been bloody livid about the whole thing, but in the moment there had been so many bodies moving in so many different directions that in the end it was actually quite easy for Lucien to assume control of the situation, or at least his own corner of it. Matthew had overseen the arrest and detention of the attackers, and Lucien had overseen the transportation of Charlie into the hospital. There had been a terrible moment when no one knew what to do; there were a few doctors and nurses in the crowd but none with the training to handle a bullet wound like this, and the streets had been closed down with no way for an ambulance to reach them.

Lucien had done the only thing he could, in that moment. He'd rolled up his sleeves, barked a few orders at the nurses, and set to work.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time Jean made her way up to the roof. Tension had settled thick and heavy on the walls of the castle, as the minutes continued to pass with no sign of the king. All sorts of conflicting reports had come in; that the King was dead, that the King was unarmed, that one of the guards had been wounded and the King had performed surgery on him right there in the street. The chaos grated on Jean's nerves, and she had done her best to avoid her fellow servants as much as possible, had foregone dinner altogether and refused to join the maids and the cooks as they gathered round the wireless in the kitchen after their meal. Several hours had passed and by now the news reports would have the right of it, but Jean did not want to know for sure, not just yet. As dreadful, as heartrending as it was to linger in this moment when she did not know for certain what had become of her King, at least for now she could still cling to hope. The hope that he was well, that he was safe, somehow, that he would be coming home, coming back to her.

Without any direction from her wayward thoughts her feet led her to the sheltered corner of the battlements where she stood most often, where so many nights her King had stood beside her and spoken to her softly. Alone up there, in the dark, with none but the stars to bear witness she allowed a few tears to slip down her cheeks, and reached into her pocket to retrieve the piece of stationary she'd pilfered from the King's study.

_My darling Jean, _those words written in his own hand, they danced before her eyes, taunting her with thoughts of shattered dreams and misplaced hopes. How could it be, she wondered, that he could be taken from her so soon, so easily, before she was able to speak the truth of her heart, before she was able to tell him just how very much he meant to her? Fate had been so cruel to her in the past but she had thought, before now, that her days of grief were behind her, that she had lost enough for one lifetime already and might be allowed a gentler sort of existence. But this, this howling, gnawing loss that seemed to hang just over her head had come for her regardless. Someone had _shot _the King, someone had, with hatred and unspeakable violence, threatened to steal away this man she loved, just as her husband had been stolen from her. When Christopher died she had thought that the memories only added to her torment, that knowing how it felt to fall asleep with his arms around her, to know the brush of his lips and the warmth of his hands and the soft sound of his laugh had only compounded her sorrow, but now she was left wondering if this would be worse, to mourn a love that had never truly come to be. Perhaps, she thought, they were each a torment, in their own way.

There came the heavy sound of footsteps behind her, then, and the breath caught in her throat. She wanted, _oh, _she wanted so badly to turn and find _him, _this almost-love of hers, safe and well and home where he belonged, but if she turned and found instead a grim-faced guard come to tell her that the King was dead she was certain she would surely break in half. Regardless of their identity, beloved King or grieving guardsman she could not allow them to see the letter, and so she carefully folded it and stowed it in her pocket, and then she squared her shoulders, and waited.

It took only a moment for those footsteps to reach her, for him to come to a stop, close to her and yet not _too _close, not overly familiar. Silence stretched between them, Jean and this mysterious messenger, but she could not bring herself to break it. And so he broke it for her.

"I thought I might find you here," he murmured softly.

Jean spun on her heel, a fresh wave of tears overwhelming her as at last she saw for herself that her King was well, and whole. For an instant her eyes traveled over him hungrily, taking in his wrinkled trousers and his mussed-up shirt, his collar unbottoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He must have been freezing for he had come to her with no coat, no jacket, no waistcoat even, his hair beginning to curl at the end of an unbearable day. Her heart swelled in her chest, the breath left her lungs; there was no sign at all that he was injured, and though he looked exhausted he was still standing, here, with her, had come to find her before he'd even gone to his own rooms, of that she had no doubt. He was _here,_ and that meant that all was not lost, that there was still a chance, however small, that she might be able to tell him the truth of her heart, and spare them both the heartbreak.

"Lucien," she breathed, unable to stop herself. He stared at her for a moment; perhaps the sound of his given name falling from her lips had stunned him into insensibility, but she could not bring herself to regret it, addressing him with such familiarity. In the time that they had come to know one another he had become more dear to her than most anyone else in the world, and he needed to know it. She took a single, tentative step towards him, her hands itching to reach out to him, to hold him, to drag him hard against her and never let him go. Someone had tried to kill him today, very nearly had done, very nearly ripped him away from her forever, and her heart was singing and desperate to claim him for her own, no matter how foolish, how destined for calamity such a thing might be.

"I thought I lost you," she whispered, her hands trembling, and as she spoke something inside him seemed to snap, for one instant he stood frozen still as a statue and in the next he had taken two short strides and reached out to catch her hips in his broad hands, pulling her hard against him. He was suddenly, _fiercely_ close, blue eyes flashing dangerously in the darkness, full lips parted behind his soft beard, and a gasp escaped her as she felt her body connect with his. He loomed over her, tall and powerful, but bowed his head until their foreheads were almost touching.

"I shouldn't have said it-" she started to, well, not apologize, exactly, but at least to offer some excuse for calling him by his name, no matter how foolish that might have been, given how he touched her now.

"Say it again," he answered, his tone low and harsh and full of a longing Jean recognized all too well.

She had no defenses left; her heart had been pulled and pushed in so many different directions over such a short span of time that she could not find the strength to hold herself back a moment longer. Almost defiantly she lifted her chin, reached up with one trembling hand to cradle his cheek in her palm, looking him in the eyes as she spoke. In that moment, he was beautiful to her, so _beautiful, _real and hard and close, and she had never wanted anything more in her life than she wanted him.

"Lucien," she said again, and she would have smiled if only he'd given her the chance, but she had no sooner spoken his name than his lips crashed into hers and her very soul seemed to erupt in joy.

* * *

Nothing in all his life had ever moved him like the sound of his name falling from Jean's lips. Later he might regret it, might be forced to beg her forgiveness, but in the moment he could think only how he loved her, how he needed her, how he wanted her, how beautiful she was, how no one had called him by his name for months, or ever would again. But _she_ had done that, had taken one look at him and seen not a King or a prince or a failure of a son but seen a man, and she cared for him anyway.

And _oh_, but she kissed him with such heat, wound her arms around his neck and molded herself against the plane of his chest, rose up on her tiptoes to press hard against him, opened her mouth and let his tongue surge past her lips without a moment's hesitation. There was a roar in his ears that drowned out conscious thought; he could do nothing then but _feel, _and what he felt was Jean, soft and warm and beautiful on this bitterly cold night, safe in his arms, not rejecting him but kissing him with everything she had and he wanted -

He wanted everything.

A brush with death had always made him bold. In the past he had dealt with such terror in the usual fashion, drinking, brawling, singing, tumbling into bed with a woman who wanted him. His every nerve cried out for satisfaction and his battered heart rejoiced to think Jean could care for him so deeply, that her distance of late had not been borne of a lack of affection, that she was here, with him, holding him, warm and willing. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and held it there before soothing away the sting with her own soft tongue and that decided it for him, more than anything else. It was no difficult thing; Jean was a slightly built woman and she was already wrapped around him, and so he turned them easily, took two steps back until Jean was flush against the stone wall of the castle and they were both of them hidden from sight in the shelter of that out-of-the-way corner of their home. A soft sound slipped past Jean's lips as she connected with the wall but she did not shy away, did not waste a single moment before she was kissing him again, eager and hungry.

_Christ_, he wanted her. He had wanted her for weeks, almost from the moment that they met, and every word she'd spoken to him and every detail he'd learned about her had only endeared her more to him until he was left with no doubt at all that he loved her. That such love was forbidden, that it could never truly be allowed to bloom, those things he knew well, and yet he disregarded every restriction in that moment, utterly consumed by need of her and heedless to anything else.

His lips fell to the curve of her neck and her hands tangled in his hair, holding him close against her, the breath leaving her in soft, delicious pants, and _oh, _he had to have her.

Without thought he reached for her, trailed one hand over the swell of her bum until he caught the back of her thigh, and she realized what he wanted at once, shifted her hips and lifted her leg until her apron and the tight skirt she wore bunched up around her hips and her thigh wrapped around his waist. His hand fell at once to the soft skin just above her stocking tops and he abandoned her neck in favor of kissing her lips instead, drinking deeply of the taste of her while still her fingers tangled in his hair and he ground himself into the soft cradle of her hips.

There were so many things he wanted to tell her, how he loved her, how he needed her, how he had grieved to think he'd wounded or offended her, how he could not spend another day without her, how frightened he had been, how happy he was now. The words would not come, but he hoped she could hear them anyway, in the gentle way he touched her skin, in the desperate way he kissed her. Somehow she had always seemed to know just what he was thinking, and in this moment he felt his intention was impossible to misunderstand. They were wound around one another, dangerously close to losing all control, and Jean was right there with him, until-

Until she broke from their kiss with a gasp as if she were drowning, her hands abandoning his hair in favor of pressing against his chest. She did not push him away entirely, did not even loosen the hold of her leg around his hip, but still she had called a halt to proceedings and so he relented, gasping slightly, his nose brushing against her cheek while he waited for her to speak. A moment passed, and then another, her fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt.

"We can't, Lucien," she told him breathlessly, her voice dripping with regret. And though he knew those words should have broken his heart he found they brought him only hope, for the tone in which she'd spoken told him plainly that she _wanted_ to, and that was, he thought, the only thing that mattered.

_Where there's a will, there's a way, _the words floated through his mind, and he nearly laughed aloud, half-made from adrenaline and love.

"We can," he disagreed gently, dropping a kiss against her cheek. "But not tonight." He gave one last affection squeeze to her thigh and then helped her to stand, his hands ghosting over the curve of her hip while her skirt fell back into place.

"No, Lucien," she said, and then she gave her head a little shake. "_Your Majesty,_" she corrected herself, and the hope that had filled him only a moment before burst like a balloon in his chest and sent him hurtling towards the ground, and his doom. "We _can't."_

She stepped up close to him, and kissed him one last time, though there was no heat left in her now, only sorrow. "I'm sorry," she breathed against his lips, and then she turned, and walked away.


	20. Chapter 20

_10 February 1959_

It was perhaps a bit cowardly of him, to lie in wait for her rather than seek her out or write her a letter or otherwise engage with her directly, but Lucien wasn't sure, really, what else to do when Jean seemed so determined to avoid him, so convinced that what he wanted - what _she _wanted, what _they _wanted - could never be. She had not gone up to the roof again, and in truth he had begun to suspect that she had left the castle altogether, so complete was her absence. A few polite inquiries had set his mind to rest on that score; Jean was still in the castle, and he knew then that she must have devised some way to keep herself out of sight.

That simply wouldn't do.

Patience had never been Lucien's strong suit, and when he did pause to reflect on his actions he did so after the fact, over a bottle of scotch, usually in the darkness. When a problem arose he confronted it head on or not at all, and he was determined in this particular instance not to sit idly by. It was not only stubbornness or selfish desire that drove him to to this point, was not only a need easily sated by another more willing woman. Having tasted Jean's kiss, felt her arms wrap around his neck, felt the press of her thigh insistent at the curve of his hip, he _knew_ now, without a doubt, that what he wanted, she wanted as well. Jean remained convinced that the obstacles between them were too great to overcome, but Lucien did not share her reservations.

_That_ was why he needed to speak to her. To speak to her plainly, to hear from her lips the reasons why she thought they could never be and work through those challenges with her, together, so that in the end they might both be happy, might both be able to claim that which they wanted most of all. They had known one another for about four months; not a very long time, he knew, but long enough for him to grow terribly fond of her, long enough for him to learn that she was brave and strong and kind, to learn that he wanted, more than anything else, to spend more time with her. It was not within his power, just now, to make any grand promises, to give her the sort of commitment a good Catholic woman might want from a man, but surely this much they could do, talk to one another, continue to see one another, to treat one another gently, to nurture the fragile hope that had begun to bloom within his chest. Some part of him, less rational than he cared to admit, loved her already, and in a few months' time, when he had at last learned what had become of his family, perhaps he could…

Well. There were all sorts of things he hoped he would one day be able to do, but for now he was caught in this strange sort of limbo, and he wanted, very much, for Jean to be caught along with him.

To that end, then, he had retreated to the study in his private suite without a word to anyone just before lunch. He had learned, quite by accident, that it was Jean who cleaned his rooms each afternoon, and so he was determined to wait there for her. If she would not come to him, then he must go to her.

It was somewhat touching, the knowledge that it was Jean who tidied his things each day, that she did not entrust that task to anyone else. He liked the thought of it, Jean floating through his rooms, smoothing her hand over the coverlet on his bed, tucking his shirts into the wardrobe. If he were being honest with himself, however, the reminder that she was an employee, that she did these things because she must, because it was her duty, put a damper on those gentle feelings. He did not want her in his suite because she _had_ to be there, because she had to clean up after him, because he had created work for her; he wanted her to be there because she _wanted_ to be, wanted her to want to be there with him.

The main door opened and closed again, and though Lucien could not hear her footsteps on the plush carpet he could hear her sigh softly as she set about her work. The moment had come and he could tarry no longer, and so he took a deep breath, rose from his chair, and went out to meet her.

She was not in the sitting room but he could hear her moving around in the bedroom, and so he made his way there at once. She had left the door open behind her, and so he leaned against the frame, watching for a moment as she stripped the sheets from his bed. As always during the day she was wearing the soft navy dress and white half-apron that formed her uniform, dark curls bouncing gently as she moved, and as he looked at her he could think only how lovely she was, even in such simple clothes, how he loved that she could be so beautiful with neither vanity nor adornments to bolster her natural charms. Oh, she was not as young as some women he had met since coming to this place, but then he was not so very young himself, and youth did not charm him as it once might have done. That she was closer to his own age, that she had experienced more of life, that those experiences had been so similar to his own, those things he loved about her.

"Jean," he called softly, not wanting her to catch him in the act of staring. At the sound of his voice she spun on her heel, a pillowcase clutched in her hands and the color high in her cheeks.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, but her greeting was short and her mouth was set in a thin line; _she does not approve, _he thought glumly.

"I was hoping we could talk." It was not the most poetic of opening lines, but he knew that he must start somewhere, and Jean was not the sort of woman who would appreciate him beating around the bush. If this conversation was to be successful, he would have to be direct.

"I have work to do," she answered, turning her back on him, and he felt a flicker of annoyance deep within his chest. Not for her, never for her; he was frustrated, irritated, bedeviled by his circumstances. He did not want to be a king, did not want people bowing and scraping and falling all over themselves to follow his commands. He wanted to be a man, no better or worse than she, not the office that she served or the title she gave deference to but a man she could speak to, plainly and honestly. He wanted to hear her call him _Lucien _again, wanted to remember, if only for a few moments, who he was when he was not wearing the crown.

"Leave it for another day," he said then. "Come and sit with me. Please," he added when he realized he'd just given her two orders in a row.

There was silence for a moment, as if she were debating with herself, but she must have realized in the end that he was not going to simply let matters lie for she sighed and let the pillowcase flutter from her hand before turning to face him. Absently she smoothed her apron down over her thighs and he tried not to follow the movement of her hands with hungry eyes.

"Please," he said again, holding his arm out in a gesture of welcome, and with her chin held high Jean approached him, followed him into the sitting room and folded herself primly into a chair at his prompting.

"May I get you something to drink?"

"Please, sir, I haven't much time," she answered, her tone hardly welcoming.

Lucien frowned. "Very well." He sat, then, and braced his palms on his knees, feeling suddenly rather awkward. He knew what he wanted to say but he did not quite know _how _to say it, and Jean was watching him with eyes hard and wary, her delicate hands folded in her lap. _Get on with it, old son, _he told himself. There was nothing else for it but to put aside his dignity and dive right in, and so he did.

"I kissed you," he said, and she opened her mouth at once to protest, but he held his hand up, asking for silence. "Please, Jean," he said softly. Perhaps she could hear the desperation in his voice for she gave him a little nod, and relaxed somewhat in her chair, as if she had decided to hear him out. "I kissed you, Jean. I have been...I think you know...oh, bugger it. Jean, I'm terribly fond of you. And I know that you think there can't be anything between us, and I have to tell you I don't believe that. I know that you have concerns but I was hoping we might talk through them together and reach a solution that would be acceptable for both of us. Because I can't accept this, Jean. I can't bear to go for days without speaking to you. So please, just...please help me."

* * *

Jean felt rather as if she had wandered into a strange and terrible dream. She held her hands clasped firmly together into her lap, and she dug her nails into her palm until the sting of it convinced her that this was, in fact, very real. He sat across from her, earnest as a schoolboy, asking for her help. Asking for her help as if he did not already know very well just why she had been avoiding him, why they could never be; could he really be so unaware of their precarious circumstances? For a moment she watched him, wondering if he was a fool or a manipulator or both. It did not seem possible, she thought, that he should be so blind to the obstacles between them, but then again he was a king, had been a prince before that; perhaps he become so accustomed to getting his own way that he no longer remembered what is was to be disappointed.

Or perhaps it was unkind of her to even think such a thing; he had been a doctor and a soldier, had thrown himself into the chaos when Charlie was shot and performed surgery on the boy himself, rather than cower beneath the protection of his guards. Perhaps he genuinely believed that they could find some way to be together.

_His father did marry a commoner, _she reminded herself; perhaps her King no longer believed that such restrictions applied to him, given that his father had already broken through that particular barrier.

"All right," she said slowly. "I don't think you've considered my position, sir. The castle is my home. It has been for fifteen years. If I was to allow myself to...well. You've only been here a very short time. If it became common knowledge that things between us were less than proper, or if you were to decide at some point in the future that you were no longer quite so fond of me, I would lose my home and my job. I have no husband to support me, I have to make my own way." _And I hardly think you're proposing marriage, and I would laugh in your face if you did. _He had only been home a bare four months, and Jean knew that was not long for either of them to settle on such a permanent course of action. The very thought of it was ridiculous, and Jean was not at all interested in becoming a queen. In fact, though she would never dare tell him so lest she sound overly-ambitious, the notion that she could possibly be made queen should things continue in such a manner between them frankly terrified her. She did not want the jewels and the gowns and the press and the power and the responsibility; she wanted her little room on the second floor and her seat on the hard pew in the modest castle chapel and the pride of knowing that she had done an honest day's work, without the whole kingdom looking on. But such thoughts were, to her mind, putting the cart before the horse, and she kept them to herself. He had only kissed her once, and then in a moment when tensions were high, and she saw no reason in worrying herself over things that could never be.

"I see," he said, and in the heaviness of his tone she could hear that he did, in fact, see, that her explanation had driven home a point he had not yet considered. "I would not want to jeopardize your livelihood, Jean. I would hope that you know that. I would never dream of sending you away-"

"The choice may not be up to you, if we're found out. And I will not have people gossiping about you. You may not care about your reputation, sir, or mine for that matter, but other people do. You cannot be seen as the sort of man who...who...is improper, with his servants. That would be a disaster."

"I think we've done a fine job of keeping it just between us so far," he told her, and though she was somewhat relieved to see the mischievous glint return to his eyes there was also a part of her that wanted to shake him, in that moment. How could he joke about such things? What an impossible man he was, this king of hers.

"Lucien," she sighed his name exasperatedly, the word sliding past her lips before she could stop it, and _oh, _his smile was so lovely, even if it was just a touch smug. Jean rose to her feet then, cheeks flaming; this was exactly the sort of thing she had promised herself she would not do, and she felt a sudden, rather powerful urge to flee, from this room, from this man, from the contradictory emotions swirling through her heart. As she stood so did he, his smile fading, and he stepped towards her, his hand outstretched as if he meant to reach for her, though he did not quite make the attempt.

"Jean," he said softly. "If you do not want me to kiss you again then I won't. You have my word. But please, can't we at least be friends? You're one of the only people in this castle - in the whole bloody world - that I trust, and I can't bear this distance between us."

Oh, that bloody impossible man! _Friends? _It was not Jean's place to be _friends _with her king, to call him by his name, to speak to him softly in the darkness. But he looked so terribly lost, so terribly afraid, and though a part of her knew that the best course of action would be to march straight out of that room and right into town to go in search of employment elsewhere the realization crashed into her then that she did not _want _to go. She wanted to talk to him, to see him smile, to hand him cups of tea and plates of biscuits and watch him grow into his role as king. She wanted to be there for him, to speak to him, to hear his voice, to listen to his troubles and help him through them. And yes, she bloody well wanted him to kiss her again, but she supposed in time that particular want might fade.

"I suppose that would be all right," she said carefully.

He smiled, relieved, and held his hand out to her once more, though this time she realized he meant for her to shake it.

"Friends?" he asked her.

"Friends," she agreed, and took his hand.

At that very moment there came a knock on the door, and then it opened and Matthew Lawson stepped inside. Jean dropped the king's hand at once, blushing,but Matthew was an old friend and knew her well, and Jean knew that he would not tell anyone what he had seen, or even find anything untoward in it. After all, he had only caught them standing together, shaking hands; it was hardly the passionate clinch they'd shared on the roof-

_Don't think about that now,_ she chided herself.

"If there's nothing else, sir, I'll leave you to it," she said primly, and when the king did not respond she turned and marched from the room with all the dignity she could muster. It was, she thought, quite the strangest afternoon she'd had for quite some time, but on the whole her heart felt lighter for having spoken to him.

* * *

As the door closed behind her Matthew turned to stare at him incredulously, and Lucien could not do nothing but shrug.

"What?" he asked, as if he had done nothing at all wrong, as if his heart was not even at that very moment singing in his chest, for Jean had agreed not to leave him, not to hold herself apart from him as she had done before.

"With all due respect, sir," Matthew said grimly, "that is the best woman in the entire kingdom, and if you hurt her, king or not I'll break your bloody kneecaps."

And what could Lucien say to that? He could explain to Matthew what had just transpired in this place? It was not exactly the resolution he'd been hoping for - he wanted, very much, to kiss Jean again, and often - but he was beginning to see that it was the best possible outcome, for the moment. Jean was not leaving him, and he would be able to speak to her again, as often as he liked, so long as he kept his hands to himself. And for now, for this time when he did not know if his wife yet lived, when he was not free to give his heart as he wished, he knew that this arrangement was for the best, though it had taken Jean's careful wisdom to help him see it. Surely Sir Patrick would have news for him sometime soon, and then when he knew for a fact whether he was widowed or not, then he could reconsider his position. it was a strange sort of war that took place in his chest, in that moment, as he realized that he wanted two very different things, and both of them quite badly. There was, and always would be, a part of his heart that desperately wanted Mei Lin back. To have his wife returned to him, to hold her in his arms once more, would be the greatest of joys, he thought. And so long as Jean remained his friend, should such a thing come to pass he was certain his affections would fade, replaced by the depth of love he felt for his wife. On the other side of that furious battle was his longing for Jean; if word reached him that Mei Lin was dead he would be bound by his promise to Sir Patrick to marry again. And if he were forced to make such a commitment, he knew now which woman he would choose, and that was all for the good. Yes, he reckoned the afternoon had gone quite well indeed, and he was resolved to give Matthew no reason to make good on his threat.


	21. Chapter 21

_2 March 1959_

"All things considered, they did you a favor, sir," Sir Patrick was saying. Lucien could not help but stare at the man incredulously; he had never before thought that being shot at might qualify as a _favor. _"Public sentiment is firmly on your side. Those pictures of you directing the crowds, helping to carry that lad into the hospital, all those news stories about your work during the war and your training as a doctor, it's made people love you. Even your cousins aren't foolish enough to attempt another assassination any time soon. The whole kingdom is on your side, now. Really, they did more good than harm."

"Tell that to Charlie Davis," Lucien grumbled; he'd patched the lad up as well as he was able, but it would be months before Charlie was back in fighting form, and no matter what Sir Patrick had to say on the subject he would not ever reckon that poor Charlie taking the bullet that had been meant for him qualified as _good. _

"Yes, well, on to other matters, then," Sir Patrick said, grimacing at his king's displeased tone.

They were sitting together in the counsel room; it had been King Thomas's habit to meet with his Prime Minister in this place, and Lucien had carried on the tradition. He would have preferred a meeting in his private study, with a glass of whiskey close to hand, but he understood that it was required of him to keep up appearances, and so he did. The room was grand but cozy by castle standards, with only ten chairs gathered around the polished wooden table. A portrait of his father, commissioned at the time of his death, had recently been hung on the far wall, featuring the old king wearing a dour expression and a military uniform Lucien was certain his father had never once worn in life. Thomas had not been a soldier, and though his role as king gave him command of the army during war time he had never been a master strategist, choosing instead to rely upon the counsel of his generals.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, sir," Patrick told him then, and Lucien leaned forward in his chair. He felt his heart drop straight through his chest at those words; he had been waiting nearly four months now for word of his family, and each time he met with Sir Patrick he had folded his hands and wished with his whole heart for some news. Would this be it, he asked himself, the moment when all his hoped were shattered, when with a few platitudes and a shrug Sir Patrick tore his whole word to pieces? _Bad news, _he'd said, and Lucien couldn't imagine, even for a moment, that it had anything to do with the National Health Service or the miner's union. No, Patrick's face was grave, his mouth set in a thin line, and there were no reports to accompany what he was about to say, no trace of this information written down where it could be easily picked up by the wrong hands.

"As you know, the intelligence services have been looking for your family for some time now," Patrick said slowly.

There was a bitter, angry piece of Lucien's heart that wanted to protest, to say _no, I don't know that, because you haven't told me a bloody thing, and I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. _It was perhaps unkind of him, to be so suspicious of the Prime Minister, to doubt whether the man would keep his word, but Lucien had so far been presented with no evidence to the contrary, and in the absence of evidence mistrust festered.

"We sent a detachment of agents to Hong Kong, and they were able to find records regarding the ship where your wife and child were last seen. I'm sorry to tell you, sir, that the ship never reached the port. It was sunk during the battle of Hong Kong. There were no adult survivors, but several small children were rescued, and our people are in the process of tracking them now."

_There were no adult survivors. _Those words rang through the vaults of his mind like some ghastly bell; Lucien lurched to his feet, unsteady, poised as if to flee, but his legs would not hold him and he collapsed once more into his chair. His whole body was trembling, from head to foot; he drew in one ragged breath, and then buried his face in his hands as the tears overcame him. His shoulders shook with great, wracking sobs but no sound escaped him; everything that he was, every piece of himself, had focused inward, an implosion of grief that shattered him and left his heart crumbled and wrecked. His wife was gone, and Derek, too; Lucien had put the three people he loved most in the world on that ship, had sent them across the sea with prayers and hope and then turned to the grim business of surviving the horror of Singapore after the arrival of the Japanese. _He _had done this, had set their feet upon this path, pleaded with his wife until at last she agreed, and sealed her fate. She was gone, his beautiful wife, that woman whose face had haunted him for the last seventeen years. She was _gone, _and every prayer he had ever uttered, every hope he had ever harbored in his heart, had all been for naught, for the sea had taken her, and Derek with her. In that moment there was no thought in his head save for _her; _he could almost hear her gentle voice, chiding him playfully, could almost see the shine of her dark hair tumbling down the elegant curve of her back, her pale skin, her determined gaze. _Oh, my love, _he thought, _oh, what have I done?_

In the wake of his tears Sir Patrick sat silent for a time, though Lucien kept his face in his hands and so could not see whether the man was shifting uncomfortably at such a display, or if he was watching his sovereign with pitying eyes, and Lucien could not have cared less which it was. Mei Lin was gone, and he had done nothing to save her, had been left helpless and hopeless and wrecked.

At last, however, his shoulders stopped shaking, and, perhaps noticing this, Sir Patrick spoke.

"I can't begin to imagine what you must be feeling," he said slowly, "but I would like to remind you, sir, that there is still a chance your child lives. It will take some time, but we have the list of orphanages the children were sent to, and they will have records of where the children were sent afterward. I should think we'll know for certain in the next month or so. Don't give up hope, sir."

Lucien scrubbed his palms across his cheeks and cleared his throat, gave his head a little shake and tried to compose himself. It was too much for him to process, the loss of his wife, the chance that his child might yet be found; it was a slim chance, and he did not trust it for there had been dozens of children on that ship, and there was no guarantee that Li might have been among those who had been plucked from the sea. He had thought, before now, that surely his family must still be living for in his heart he felt them still, and some small piece of him clung to the mysticism of his Catholic upbringing, convinced that there were forces at work he could not understand, convinced that if they had gone he would surely have felt their passing in his very bones. Now, he could no longer trust his own heart, and so steeled himself. He would say all the right things to Sir Patrick, and wait for news, but he could not allow himself to believe that Li would be found alive, not for one moment. The chance was too small, and his heart could not survive another disappointment like this one. No, he would proceed as if Li had perished in the arms of her mother, and wrap himself in that grief as if it were armor.

"I can't thank you for this now," Lucien said, his voice a ragged, pitiful thing, "but I suppose I ought to say I'm grateful to you for your service." The words were bitter, and he could not hide his pain.

"I will leave you in peace, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said, rising slowly from his chair. Lucien remained right where he was, stricken and hardly able to even contemplate moving. "You have my sincerest condolences, sir."

And then he left in silence, Lucien holding his tongue though he longed, more than anything, to tell Sir Patrick exactly where he could shove his condolences. It was not the Prime Minister's kindness Lucien wanted now, was not platitudes or a reminder of his responsibilities; what he wanted in that moment, if he were being honest with himself, was Jean, two soft arms to hold him and a gentle voice to soothe him, and in the absence of such comfort he supposed whiskey would have to do.

* * *

It was still far too cold to go for her customary evening stroll along the battlements, and so Jean made her way down to the kitchen after everyone else had gone to sleep. She intended to fix herself a cup of tea, and then to carry it back up to her little room, to turn on the wireless by her bed and let the music drift over her while she read her book and tried to relax at the end of another long day. Easter was not far off, and that would be the next grand celebration for the castle. She'd spent most of the morning on the phone, ringing round to the other royal estates and trying to ensure that everything was in order. It had been the old King's custom to spend Easter in one of his country estates, in the somewhat more modest manor where he had been born, so that he could take communion in the same cathedral where he had been christened. Jean did not know if the new king intended to hold to that tradition, but she had a meeting with the Earl Marshal scheduled for the next day, and she supposed she'd find out soon enough. Strangely, she rather hoped he wouldn't; Jean was not a member of the retinue that traveled with the king when he ventured to his other properties, and she did not relish the thought of having him far from her side. He was, after all, her very dear friend.

As she slipped into the silent, gleaming kitchen, she was quite surprised to find the lights were already on, and even more surprised to discover that someone was banging about in the pantry. There came a particularly mighty _thump, _and then a low muffled curse, and she realized at once who the intruder was, and smiled.

"Your Majesty?" she called softly as she approached the open pantry door. He swore again, soft and low, but stepped out into the light before she could enter.

"Good evening, Jean," he said.

For a moment she simply studied him, fear beginning to gnaw at her; he had abandoned most of his clothes, his jacket and waistcoat and tie, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned, his hair terribly mussed, his eyes bloodshot. He looked a proper mess, but she did not think he was drunk; he was steady on his feet, and though his eyes were red-rimmed and perhaps a bit puffy his gaze was focused and clear. Not whiskey, then, she thought, but then the only other explanation she could think of was weeping, and the very idea of it tore at her heartstrings. What could wound him so, that he should weep until the ravages of his grief showed upon his face?

"I was looking for the whiskey," he confessed before she even had a chance to ask him what on earth he was doing rummaging through the pantry. "Peter's a good lad but I'm afraid I've run out upstairs."

That was Jean's fault; she had taken Peter aside some weeks before, and given him a stern talking to. The young valet had been restocking the bottles in the king's drinks cart the moment they got a bit low, and with a steady supply of whiskey on hand the king had burned through the bottles like wildfire. Jean had put her foot down, and instituted a new rule, that the whiskey was to be restocked every Friday, and no more often. Now did not seem the moment to chide him for his drinking, however, not now when he seemed so low, so very sad.

"I was just about to make myself a cup of tea," she told him gently. "Why don't I make two?"

The king's answering smile was soft, grateful, and Jean knew then she had done the right thing. It would be better for him, she thought, to have tea rather than whiskey before bed, and perhaps they might do as they sometimes did of an evening, and share their tea together, over a plate of biscuits and a quiet conversation. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time, and perhaps it might be distraction enough to help him forget whatever grieved him.

"I tell you what, Jean," he said, "why don't you go and have a seat, and I'll make it?"

"Oh, really, sir, it's no trouble," she started to protest, shocked - and more than a little pleased - by his offer. It was such a gentlemanly thing to do, but it was not his place to make tea for _her; _he was the one who sat about while others fetched and carried, and such a reversal of roles was not quite in keeping with their new-made truce. Then again, she supposed, the offer was a very kind one, and he looked desperately in need of occupation -

"Please, Jean," he said, and to her great relief he was still smiling. "It's not an order, but I can make it one. Rest your feet, and let me worry about this."

"All right," she agreed then, and made her way over to the two little stools that stood sentinel at the end of the counter. Before she sat, however, she turned on the wireless, and the soft sound of strings plucking out a gentle tune filled the empty kitchen. She turned the volume down until she was satisfied, and then sat to watch her king at his work.

To her surprise he seemed to know just where everything was kept, the kettle and the loose tea and the cups and the sugar; she had made tea often enough for him in this place, and perhaps, she thought, he had been watching more closely then she realized, taken note of her movements and the proper place of things. His hands were steady, his movements methodical, and as she sat she found she was quite grateful for the respite. She'd cleaned his rooms that afternoon, as she did each day, and then her work had carried her from end of the grounds to the other and back again, her steps never slowing, her hands never idle. That was the way of things, she knew, given that she lived and worked in the same place, that every moment must be given over to occupation, and the knowledge that her king had taken it upon himself to give her a bit of a break and put his own hands to work warmed her heart.

At last he turned to her, two cups of tea in hand - both well sugared - and she could not help but smile at the picture he presented. In some ways he was less formidable like this, without his fine clothes or robes of state, just a rumpled man walking across the kitchen late in the evening. In some ways, however, his disheveled appearance made her stomach flutter, for she could see clearly the corded muscles of his forearms where he'd rolled back his sleeves, the thick column of his neck calling out to her in ways she did not wish to contemplate.

"For the lady," he said winsomely, offering her a cup.

"Thank you, sir," she answered, and as she took a sip of tea he settled on the stool beside her, leaning back against the wall and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

There was silence, for a time, as they both enjoyed their tea and the presence of a friend close to hand, but clearly he had not forgotten his troubles for beside her he began to grow restless, and then at last he spoke.

"You told me once," he said, "that it took the army six months to inform you of your husband's death."

_That_ rather put a damper on her good humor. Jean frowned, and took another sip of tea before she answered.

"Yes," she said, wondering where he was going, pointing their conversation along this particular path.

"Did it...did it help you, to know that he was gone? Was knowing for certain any easier than wondering?"

Carefully Jean set her teacup on the counter, and turned to look at him, to _really_ look at him, and found his gaze locked on her face, his expression deeply troubled. _Is this to do with her? _Jean wondered; that girl he'd loved, the girl he'd lost, Jean had thought she was dead, but was not that case? Was she merely gone, as Christopher had been gone, and her beloved left with nothing but questions? Or was it something else entirely? She did not know, but the question had been asked gently and in good faith by a heart in need of comfort, and so she chose to answer him with kindness.

"It was not easier," she said, "but it helped. Those six months...I was frozen. I could do nothing but wait. Wait for a letter, for a call, for some sign of what had happened. I could not plan for our future. I couldn't think any further ahead than the next delivery of the post. I couldn't tell the boys what had happened to their father, or what might happen to us. That waiting...that wasn't living. And I felt -" _sometimes do, still, _she added in her mind- "as if a piece of me died with him, when they came to tell me he was gone. I felt as if I'd never truly be alive again. But I could _move, _then. I wasn't stuck, I wasn't waiting. They told me the truth, and I didn't have to wonder any more, and I could focus on the boys and their future. I didn't think of it this way at the time, but it was a gift. It hurt, but it put an end to that unbearable waiting."

"And now you can live your again?" He asked quietly.

The answer to that question was rather more complicated than Jean wanted to consider at present. When news of Christopher's death had reached her she'd been plunged into a period of furious activity, arranging a memorial service, settling accounts with the bank, making plans to sell the farm. And then she'd moved to the city, and been focused so completely on her job and raising the boys, and each day had been so full of activity she hardly had a moment to breathe. Christopher had died in 1942, but word had not reached her until the following year. And every moment since she had been _busy,_ but whether that activity constituted living she wasn't sure. All the things she'd once planned for herself, the travel, the grand adventures, had never come to be. She was friendly with the other members of staff but she did not join them when they ventured out for a bit of fun, and she had rejected each of the paltry few offers she'd received from a gentleman for a night out to dinner or a stroll through the park. Her feet had carried her forward, but her heart had remained frozen, until -

Until he'd gone and kissed her, this rumpled, wonderful man who sat beside her now.

It was a confession she could not bear to make, and so she only told him gently, "yes."

He nodded, and dropped his gaze back to his teacup, and Jean was left wondering what exactly it was he was trying to ask her, and what exactly it was she had been trying to tell him.


	22. Chapter 22

_29 March 1959_

"They aren't even trying to be subtle about it, are they?" Lucien grumbled in a low voice designed not to carry beyond his companion's ears. Beside him the Lady Ann Whitcombe, née McDonald, sometimes known as _Joy, _sat prim and proper and smiling in a way that gave no evidence of her true feelings.

"They're politicians, sir," she told him lightly. "They prefer grand gestures to subtlety. All politicians are frustrated actors, deep down."

That earned her a genuine laugh from him, and her answering smile was almost victorious.

It was Easter, and after an interminable mass the King and his retinue had decamped to the Grand Hall of his country estate for a luncheon feast. The long table seated only fifty, and so paled in comparison to the one situated in the formal dining room of his castle; in fact, it seemed almost cozy. They'd been lodging in this fine manor house for nearly a week, Lucien and the army of servants and bodyguards who followed him everywhere he went, along with a revolving door of nobility and politicians tramping through the halls of the sprawling manor. It was not the king who invited the guests, nor was it the king who had decided upon the seating arrangements; someone else had taken it upon themselves to make sure that the Lady Ann was in residence for the entire week, and that she should be seated at the King's right hand for this most auspicious occasion. _It was Patrick, _Lucien thought grimly, _or I'll eat my hat. _

"I hope you won't find my company too troublesome, sir," she told him, her pale eyes sparkling with mirth.

Somehow, Lucien didn't think he would. She was not a particularly troublesome lady. Though she was a good many years younger than he the Lady Ann had experienced more than her fair share of life, and she had developed an ironclad sense of independence and a razor sharp wit. They had entertained one another more than once in the months since they'd first met, and Lucien found he rather enjoyed her company. It was nice, he thought, to spend time with someone who shared his distaste for the nobility and their milieu, someone who was in a position to make that distaste known, and not simply swallow it down with a polite _yes, sir. _She was funny, and clever, and beautiful, but Lucien knew better than to let his guard down entirely in her presence. The Prime Minister knew for a certainty now that Lucien's wife was dead, and though a bare three weeks had passed since that revelation Lucien knew that no doubt the PM's thoughts had turned to the bargain they'd struck. Sir Patrick wanted the deal done, and quickly, and had no doubt chosen this particular moment with matchmaking in mind. Resentment festered deep in the king's heart at the very thought, for though his wife had been dead for seventeen years his grief was still very fresh, and he could not even begin to consider tying himself to another so soon, not now when he did not know if Li still lived, when Mei Lin's face taunted him each time he closed his eyes - when Jean's soft voice echoed in the vaults of his mind, offering him comfort even when she was not beside him.

"Everything all right?" Lady Ann asked. He had been silent too long, he realized, lost in brooding thoughts of Sir Patrick and their bargain and his wife and his housekeeper.

"Perfectly," he answered, somewhat stiffly. "I just feel a headache coming on. It must be the fresh country air."

"Yes," Lady Ann laughed, "all this green. It's almost enough to turn one's stomach."

Actually, Lucien was terribly fond of this particular manor. It sat on an island in the midst of a vast lake, far to the north of the city. The whole of the island was given over to the manor grounds, all the trees and meadows and rippling streams; there were herds of placidly grazing deer, imported here for sport by some monarch in the foggy recesses of the distant past, multiplied to almost outrageous numbers in the more than a century since last a king's hunting party had come storming after them. There were manicured lawns for cricket and polo and bocce, wandering hedge mazes and softly tinkling fountains, gardens and glasshouses, and not a car or a railway or an airplane in sight. To get about the island one walked or rode a horse, and there was something rather calming about all that pastoral green, the sense of having stepped out of the flow of time and into a gentler era.

"It's quite nice, actually," he said softly. "I've been wondering if we might ought to open it up to tourists. Build a suspension bridge, let people come for the day to see the gardens. We could hold a fair, in the spring."

"Oh, but they'd ruin it!" Lady Ann protested at once, sounding almost outraged by the very idea. "All those trampling feet, and the trash they'd leave behind; your poor groundskeepers wouldn't be able to keep up. You _can't_ let the rabble in. It'd be no better than an amusement park, and you'd never find a moment's peace here again."

Some of Lucien's good will towards his companion faded as she spoke, and to keep from giving voice to some of his more uncharitable thoughts he chose instead to dive into his meal. It had seemed to him a very good idea; a family with a car could make the journey from the capital city to this place in a morning, spend the afternoon milling about the gardens, and be home in time for supper. It could provide a much needed respite from the endless grey fog rolling in off the river, from the smog that belched from the factory towers, from the grim facades of concrete and buildings. For a family who lived in the midst of the modern industrial age Lucien rather thought such an escape might be a necessity, and perhaps in time small hotels or B&B's would spring up around it, and revive the shrinking rural villages that dotted the lakeside. Lady Ann did not agree with this vision, but somehow he rather thought that Jean might.

* * *

"_Our Father, who art in heaven," _the old priest intoned softly, "_hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."_

"_Amen," _the other voices rumbled from around the table, and then Jean lifted her head, and smiled as around her everyone began to tuck in to their meal, their voices rising in cheerful conversation to echo throughout the little kitchen.

It was not exactly the way she'd imagined spending her Easter, and yet she found she did not mind it in the least. Ordinarily Jean's place would have been at home, in the castle, even when the King was not in residence, but she had been ordered to pack her bags and make the trip up to the country, and she had done so without protest. She was surrounded by friends; Matthew and Alice and Danny had made the trip as well, though Charlie had of necessity been left behind, with Mattie to tend to his slowly healing wounds. It was many long years since last Jean had come to this place, and she was so delighted at the prospect of spending her evenings walking through the breathtaking gardens that she chose not to examine the decision too closely. _Someone_ had decided she ought to come along, and she thought it was all for the best if she did not know just who that someone was.

"I've never seen anything like it," Danny was saying. Her nephew was seated across from her, and Jean herself was sandwiched between Matthew and Alice. It was Matthew Danny had engaged in conversation; they were discussing the strange situation of the manor house.

"Apparently the whole bloody place is sinking," Matthew told him gruffly. "But's been sinking for six hundred years, and it's still standing."

_Almost as if it were meant to be here, _Jean thought. The manor itself was not particularly impressive; yes it was a hulking stone behemoth from the fourteenth century that remained well-tended and could house hundreds, full of art both ancient and modern, all gilt and marble and opulence, but it was hardly the only such manor in the kingdom, and it was dwarfed by the castle she called home. What made this place truly special was its location, and its immaculately tended gardens. Jean had often thought it was a shame that such beauty remained locked away, mostly seen only by gardeners and stablehands, enjoyed no more than one or two times a year, and then only by the upper echelons of society. Such beauty, she thought, ought to be appreciated by everyone, and yet it remained one of the kingdom's best kept secrets.

"I'm glad we got the chance to see it," Alice said, wiping discreetly at her nose with a handkerchief, "but I for one am looking forward to going home."

Poor Alice had come down with hayfever almost the moment they'd arrived; spring had come early, and the gardens were in full, ethereal bloom.

"What about you, Auntie Jean?" Danny asked her.

"Oh, I'd stay here forever, if they let me," she told him, smiling.

* * *

He escaped the Lady Ann's clutches somewhere around 8:00 p.m. that evening. He had rather hoped to do so earlier, but when he announced his intention to stroll around the grounds she had surprised him by volunteering at once to join him. There had been no polite way to reject her, and he had been forced to walk from the parlor with the lady on his arm, leaving Sir Patrick to smirk around the end of the cigar he held clenched between his teeth. Danny and Matthew had followed them at a discreet distance, and he had smiled and nodded and made all the right noises as she chattered away at him. At last, however, it seemed she'd had enough; he'd made to enter yet another of the glasshouses, and she had stopped in her tracks right there.

"You don't really seem in need of company, Your Majesty," she'd said, the faintest bite to her tone, "and I think if I see one more begonia I'll pass out from boredom. By your leave, sir?"

"Of course," he'd said, trying not to sound too eager. "Enjoy the rest of your evening. Young Danny here can escort you back to the house."

And he had, and Lucien had breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the glasshouse, alone but for the ever present _tap tap tap _of Matthew's cane behind him. Perhaps it was strange, to rely so heavily on a crippled guard who could not have run if his life depended upon it, but Lucien trusted Matthew, and he rather doubted he was in any immediate danger, anyway. His most recent brush with death had endeared him to his people, and only a madman would try to kill him just now. It would have to be an enterprising madman, indeed, given that there were boats patrolling every cove and inlet of the island while the king was in residence.

There wasn't a single begonia in sight, Lucien was pleased to see; he never would have admitted it, but he didn't give a fig for the flowers. He had wanted only peace, and sought to achieve it by any means necessary. He would wait a quarter of an hour or so, and then he and Matthew could slip back into the house - hopefully undetected - and he could retreat to his private suite with a bottle of whiskey. But first he would need to wait, to be sure that Lady Ann was clear of his path, and so he meandered through the rows of flowers, the air strangely close and humid, studying the array of blooms and blossoms and slowly crawling vines that grew in that place. There was a sense of activity there, the kinetic energy of hundreds of growing things all gathered together beneath one roof, roots expanding, stalks growing, blooms bursting with verve and enthusiasm. They must have been, he thought, the most lovingly tended flowers in the whole of the kingdom.

He reached the end of a row and turned, and stalled in his tracks, grinning at the sight before him.

_I should have known, _he thought.

"Nice night out?" he said instead.

At the sound of his voice she spun on her heel, and had she been a less formidable woman he would have sworn she was blushing.

"Your Majesty," Jean said, giving a curtsy. Or the semblance of one, at least; she wore a lightweight white blouse, neatly buttoned, but it was primly tucked into a pair of dark navy trousers. Lucien had never seen her in trousers before, almost never saw her outside of her uniform of navy dress and white apron, and the sight of her fine legs in those close-fitting trousers, the way her outfit highlighted the smoothness of her belly, the flare of her hips, left him at a loss for words. The humidity was playing havoc with her dark curls, and a tendril of hair fell charmingly across her forehead. His hands twitched at his sides, itched to reach out and brush it back, but she took care of it herself before he had the chance.

"Are you enjoying the gardens?" he asked, finding his voice at the same moment his feet began to carry him forward. Matthew had, somewhat prudently, faded out of sight, and for the moment it felt as if he and Jean were the only two people in the world.

"I am," she said simply. "I was a farmer's wife, once. I miss the business of growing things, sometimes." Her fingertips trailed idly against one of the benches and Lucien followed their progress with hungry eyes.

Perhaps it had been foolish of him, to ask that she be brought along. There was no logical reason for it, but he had not been asked to provide one, and the thing was done. He'd hardly seen her at all over the course of the previous week, but somehow just knowing she was close had soothed him, and he was beyond delighted to see her now. His heart had been heavy and full of lament since the luncheon earlier in the day, but standing in the quiet with Jean, dark sky and twinkling stars visible through the arching glass panes of the roof over their heads, helped him to find some sense of equilibrium.

"Do you tend to any plants back home?" he asked her. It seemed a silly question, but in the moment he very much wanted to know, and he very much wanted the answer to be _yes._

But Jean only shook her head and sighed, somewhat sadly. "I don't get enough light in my room for it, and you have gardeners and groundskeepers to look after the flowers at home."

Strange he thought then, that the castle had hated for so long now had become _home, _and not just his home but _theirs, _together. A place where they belonged. A place that would seem so empty, without her.

"Maybe we could build you a glasshouse, like this one," he suggested before he could stop himself.

Jean's eyes flashed at him, one eyebrow rising as if in warning. It was a misstep, he realized; they were to be _friends, _and nothing more, and she was to call him _Your Majesty _and not _Lucien, _never _Lucien,_ and a King did not build a glasshouse for the amusement of his housekeeper, no matter how much he adored her.

"I don't think the Lady Ann would approve of that, sir," she told him. There was no heat in her voice, only resignation, and his heart sank.

"I suppose you've seen us together," he said, smoothing his hand over his hair in a gesture that was more nervous tick than anything else. For some reason, hearing Lady Ann's name in Jean's mouth made him very nervous indeed. It had not occurred to him before now to wonder if Jean knew that there were forces at work, throwing Ann into his path, but it was clear now that she knew, and that she understood what it meant, and that she had accepted it. That thought was intolerable; it was not Lady Ann he wanted, and he did not want Jean to be forced to accept anything of the sort, to hold back her own feelings and desire and submit to the will of those in power above her. She deserved better, he thought.

"It's only right that you should spend time with her, sir," Jean said, and he could hear in her voice that she was trying to convince herself as much as him. "I'm sure she's...lovely."

_She's something, _Lucien thought bleakly.

"It isn't by choice, you know."

"It's really none of my business," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me-"

She started to move past him and he reached out at once, stopped her with a gentle hand her arm. "Please, Jean, let me explain."

The touch of his hand made her pause, and he seized upon her momentary stillness, the silence that hung heavy between them, and filled it at once with the truth of his heart. That truth had been bursting at the seams of his very soul for weeks now, and he could not bear to hold it in a moment longer. Matthew knew already, but if there was any one other person in all the world who deserved to know the truth, it was Jean.

"I was married," he said simply, and he heard the way her breath caught in her throat, watched the way her gaze flickered up to his face, her eyes full of questions. "In Singapore, before the war. My wife...my wife and our child left the city on a boat, just before the Japanese invaded. And then they came, and I was taken prisoner. I was held in a camp for three years."

"_Oh, Lucien," _she breathed, tears springing to the corners of her eyes, and the sound of his given name falling from her lips gave him the strength to continue.

"When the war was over, I tried to find them. I tried for years. I wrote letters to everyone I could think of, I traveled everywhere I could, I hired private investigators. Sir Patrick has been helping me since I returned and he finally told me, just a few weeks ago, that...that my wife died. In 1942."

"And the child?" Jean asked breathlessly.

Lucien shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, yet. But I think we're close. I think it can't be long now. I'm supposed to keep this to myself until we know for sure, Patrick is worried if the news got out it might put her in danger."

This time she reached for him, took his hand in one of hers and held on to him fiercely. It was almost as if her tears were contagious; he could feel a sob fighting its way up from the back of his throat, but he beat it back with a will.

"So you see, Jean, Lady Ann is a perfectly nice woman, but I don't care a thing about her. She's...she's just another pretty thing they want me to wear. I will smile and I will nod, but I will not, _cannot_ do anything more. My child is missing, my wife is gone, and I don't give a _damn_ about Lady Ann or her father or Sir Patrick or-"

He was on a roll, hysteria inching its way up the length of his spine, the words spilling out of him faster and faster, and Jean must have seen it, must have sensed it, for she reached for him then, suddenly, her free hand cupping his cheek, and at the touch of her palm he crumpled against her like a child, sobbing. To her credit Jean stood firm beneath him, wrapped her arms around him and held him close while he buried his face in the crook of her neck and wept. And all the while she soothed him, ran her hand over his hair and spoke to him in a soft voice. At least he thought she was speaking; as the storm of his weeping began to subside and he regained some control of himself he realized she was humming, softly, a song he could not quite place.

Regretfully he pulled away, scrubbed at his cheeks with his palms and then smoothed his hand over his hair.

"I'm so sorry, Lucien," she told him earnestly, having apparently forgotten entirely their conversation about propriety in favor of offering him comfort. "No one should have to suffer so much."

"You did, Jean," he pointed out softly, but she shook her head.

"No. I lost my Christopher, but I always had a home and I always had my boys. What you've been through...it's terrible. And not being able to tell anyone must have been awful."

"Yes, well," he muttered, the faintest sensation of shame creeping in now that he had got hold of himself once more. He couldn't believe he'd gone to pieces on her like that, but Jean had borne up well beneath the strain of him, and did not seem to think any less of him now that she had seen him weep.

"What's her name?" Jean asked him gently. "Your daughter."

"Li," he said, another little sob rising up from somewhere deep in his chest. It did not escape; his tears were spent. "Her name is Li."

"I will pray for her," Jean told him, and he knew then that she would.


	23. Chapter 23

_29 March 1959_

All sense of propriety had deserted her, every promise she'd made to herself, to her king - to her priest - vanished from her mind in an instant. The man who stood before her was a king no longer, it seemed to her; he was only _Lucien, _the same man who had spoken to her so gently, who had danced her round the kitchen, kissed her hand so tenderly, kissed her lips so passionately, his shoulders bowed by grief. It would have taken a heart of stone, to turn aside from him in that moment, and Jean's heart was made of softer stuff. Though she did not allow herself to reach for his hand once more, to smooth his rumpled hair as she so longed to do, to cradle his cheek and brush the line of his beard with the pad of her thumb, still she lingered there with him amidst the golden blooms, a strange, not altogether unpleasant silence falling over them in the wake of his declaration.

_I fell in love with the wrong girl, and I lost her. _

Before now Jean had thought it no more than a wartime dalliance, the occupation of a man who knew he could not wed without his father's consent and yet thumbed his nose at tradition and took the girl he'd fancied to bed anyway. But _oh, _now she knew it was so much more than that; he'd married that girl, his girl, and she'd borne him a child, the heir to the throne and Lucien's own flesh and blood lost somewhere in the world. The ravages of grief had shown upon his face, and Jean knew as she looked at him that his heart ached for his child, just as her own would have done had one of her boys been taken from her. Time did not heal a wound of that magnitude; how could it? To lose a child would be to lose one's own self, she thought.

_What was she like? _Jean wanted to ask. _This woman you married, this woman you loved so fiercely? Tell me about her, and I will tell you of my Christopher, and we can both of us drift into the past together._

That was a dangerous road to travel, though. Their lives had charted such very different courses, and the past was full of ghosts; moreso for him than for her, she thought, for he had been held prisoner by the Japanese, and what Jean knew of those horrors she had learned from secondhand accounts, not from lived experience. _What has he seen? _She wondered as she looked at him. _It's no wonder he can't sleep, and drinks enough to keep a ship afloat. _Some sorrows could only be drowned in drink or in love, and without the latter it seemed he'd fallen upon the former with a will.

"How old is she now?" Jean asked him, somewhat timidly. She did not want to upset him, but she wanted to _know, _tried to imagine what a child of Lucien's would like, what sort of person such a child might be.

His smile was soft, and terribly sad. "She'd be twenty-one," he said. "If she's still living."

"Twenty-one?" Jean repeatedly, utterly stunned by the very thought. "My Jack is twenty-one. He will be, come June." And how strange that was, to think her baby boy a man grown; no doubt Lucien felt the same way about his daughter.

"Is he your oldest?"

"No," she answered. "Young Christopher is twenty-three."

"How about that," the king mused, resting his hands on one of the long benches before them, his eyes distant and unseeing. There was no need for him to finish his thought; she had told him once, long before, of how she'd married young, started a family when she was barely twenty. And though he was years older than she, they'd had their children at the same time, had been living on opposite sides of the globe, utterly unaware of one another's existence, their lives so very different and yet they reached that milestone together. Yes, it was a strange thought indeed.

"Where are they now? Your boys."

"Young Christopher is a soldier," Jean answered. _Like his father, _she thought. "He's in Korea, just now. And Jack is...well. Jack is Jack."

"Is he your troublemaker?"

The king's smile was gentle, almost playful, and Jean's heart ached at the sight of it. She did not want to tell him _yes, _did not want to tell him exactly what sort of trouble Jack had gotten into, how many sleepless nights she'd spent worrying for him, how at that moment she did not know, not for certain, where he was living, what he was doing. Jack was her greatest regret, she thought, for surely any of his personal failures were hers as well. It had been her responsibility to raise him up to be a good man, a strong man, a man of his word, a man like his father, and yet he remained wild, impulsive, selfish, restless. Every good quality young Christopher possessed was lacking in his younger brother, and Jean could not help but feel as if somewhere along the way she had let him down, somehow. Why else, she wondered, should he be so angry, so convinced that the world was against him, if he had not learned it at her feet?

"Yes," she said softly.

"I suppose there's always one. My parents only had the one child, but I'm I caused them trouble enough."

He straightened then, smoothed his hand over the back of his hair and smiled at her ruefully. What a strange evening it had been; Jean had not thought to meet him here, but he had found her just as he so often did at home, as surely as if they were two magnets drawn together, or perhaps two planets circling one another. He was the sun, she thought, and they were pulled towards one another by forces they could neither understand nor overcome. And the conversation had been strange, but not unwelcome; she had not expected his outpouring of emotion, the truth of him spilled at her feet, had not expected to stand quietly in this place with her king, discussing their children, and yet somehow, here they were.

"Jean," he said then, and it seemed that stranger things were yet in store, for there was a softness, a hesitancy about him that alarmed her, for it seemed as if he were just on the cusp of asking her something he ought to keep to himself. Part of her wished he wouldn't, wished he would hold his tongue and only bid her goodnight, but her heart cried out to him, knowing that whatever he asked of her in this moment her answer would surely be _yes._

"Dance with me," he said.

She smiled; she could not have stopped it if she tried. They were alone in the glasshouse, surrounded by flowers, the sky pitch black overhead. She was wearing trousers, purchased especially for this occasion, for the more casual surroundings of the country estate, not some beautiful, flowing gown. And he wore a neat black suit, in place of his usual blue, his tie balled up in his trouser pocket. Now hardly seemed a moment ripe for dancing, and yet he had asked, and she wanted to say _yes_.

"There's no music," she said, still smiling.

"I can remedy that easily enough." He was so certain in his answer, holding out his hand to her, that she accepted his offer before she had the chance to think better of it. She slipped her hand into his own, and he pulled her close, and then, to her very great surprise, he began to sing.

"_When I fall in love, it will be forever," _he sang as they swayed softly together, dirt beneath their feet and stars twinkling overhead, "_or I'll never fall in love,_" oh, Nat King Cole he wasn't, but still his voice was rich and warm, and Jean lifted her chin, and joined her voice to his, "_in a restless world like this, love is ended before it's begun," _and his eyes widened as he heard her sing, and she felt the thrill of pride that always crept up her spine each time someone praised her for her beautiful voice, and his own voice faded, and he held her only humming now as she picked up the familiar tune, "_and too many moonlight kisses seem to cool in the warmth of the sun. __When I give my heart," _he spun her loosely and then drew her back against his chest and the breath almost left her completely, but still she sang, for if she stopped they would have no reason to keep dancing, "_it will be completely, or I'll never give my heart. And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too, is when I fall in love with you-"_

She had to stop singing, then, because they'd swayed to a stop, and he ducked his head, and brushed a gentle kiss against her lips. It surprised her; she'd closed her eyes as she sang, savoring the words, the swell of the melody, the warmth of him wrapped around her, and had not known what he meant to do until the thing was done. It was just one kiss, soft and sweet, and then he pulled away, smiling at her sheepishly in the dim light.

_You shouldn't have done that, _she thought, but she did not speak the words; she could not bear to hear them leave her lips, for she was grateful, so grateful, to know that the feelings she carried in her heart were returned, even if there could never be anything more between them. It was enough now, in this moment, to know that he cared for her, here in this place so far from prying eyes, alone and free from the world beyond. Even if it wasn't meant to last, it was a memory she could cling to, and she knew she would, for all the rest of her days.

"We should be getting back," she said instead, reaching out to smooth his jacket fussily. He smiled, but did not protest, only turned, and offered her his arm. She took it, and he led her silently out of the glasshouse.

Matthew was waiting by the door, and if he thought it strange, the picture they presented, he said not a word, only fell into step beside them as they walked along the lantern-lit path through the gardens toward the manor. They parted on the doorstep, Jean to seek her bed, the king to seek his own, and though they did not speak the words of the song echoed between them, the thinnest thread of hope in a world that was set against them.


	24. Chapter 24

_10 April 1959_

Lucien's hands were trembling as he took the photo Patrick offered him. The Prime Minister was still talking, rambling on while next to him the kingdom's intelligence chief sat silent and brooding, but Lucien paid no heed to the words. The words did not matter, in the moment; the only thing that mattered was the photograph he held in his hands.

There in black and white, the paper slightly bent after its long journey but the image still clear as day, he saw a young, stern-faced woman staring up at him. Her dark hair was tied tightly behind her head, adding to the severity of her expression. The clothes she wore were the standard mode of dress for people in that corner of the world in that time, dark trousers under a long dark tunic. It was difficult to tell from the photograph, but he knew the color was likely grey or blue. Some small piece of his heart hoped for blue; he had always favored it himself, and he was desperate for any connection he could find between this girl and himself, however tenuous it might be. She was not smiling, but her features were lovely nonetheless; she had high, delicate cheekbones and her eyes…

_She has her father's eyes, _he thought numbly. Not the same color, of course - when she was small her eyes had been so dark as to be almost black, and even in the colorless shades of the photograph he could tell that had not changed - but the size and shape of them she had inherited from him. It was hard to say just how tall she was; there was nothing else in the photograph, no furniture, no other people, nothing to give a sense of scale, but her bearing was proud, and somehow Lucien felt sure she was taller now than her mother had been at that age.

"Are you certain?" Lucien managed to choke out the words, though he could not tear his eyes from the photograph. It had been so long, so very long, since last he'd seen his daughter; she had been small enough for him to lift her in his arms when they parted. He had known that as the days passed she must be growing, changing every minute, but his mind could not comprehend what his eyes could not see, and in his heart she had remained, always, a child.

"Yes," the silent intelligence chief spoke for the first time. His name was Bill; perhaps he had given his surname, but Lucien couldn't recall it. Compared to this revelation, it hardly mattered.

A worried look passed between Bill and Patrick then, but Lucien did not see it, for his gaze remained fixed on the face of his child, now twenty-one years old and a woman grown. _She favors her mother, _he thought, _but there is a piece of me in her. _Or perhaps he only thought there was, only wished.

"She was rescued along with a few other children from the shipwreck. She did not speak much Chinese, but there was an English translator working with the rescue effort, and she was able to tell him her name, and her mother's. They matched it to the information on the ship's manifest. She was kept in Hong Kong for a year, but when no one came to claim her she was sent to Shanghai. From there she was adopted by a local family."

At those words Lucien looked up at Patrick sharply, his heart in his throat. _When no one came to claim her..._the very thought of it seared him to the core. He could hardly bear it, to think that his child had been waiting, had been told that no one was coming for her, had believed herself to be utterly alone in the world. All those years he had been tortured, desperate, spending every penny he had to try to find some trace of her, but she had been ignorant of all of it, knowing only that no one had come. She did not know that he had been held captive, had been trapped and utterly oblivious to the horror that had befallen his family, did not know everything that had passed in the long dark years since his release; _oh, my darling, _Lucien thought despondently, _there is so much I must tell you. _

"By all accounts the family treated her well," Patrick added, and Lucien was grateful to him for it. Though he feared this was a wrong that could not be undone, at least he knew she had not been abused, had been taken in by people who were kind to her, perhaps even loved her; _please, please let her be loved, _Lucien had whispered those words to a God he did not believe in for seventeen long years, and now at last it seemed he might have his answer. It was not enough to restore his faith in God, but it did serve to bolster his belief in his fellow man, to know that someone somewhere had seen a child in need and given her a home.

"When can I see her?" he demanded. There were other questions he wanted to ask; for a start, he wanted to know why his own inquiries had not turned up this information, when it seemed the intelligence service had found it so readily. Perhaps it no longer mattered, but he had failed for so long to find her, and some part of his heart longed for reassurance, longed to know that it was not lack of trying on his part that kept him separated from his darling girl.

At his question Bill and Patrick shared another knowing glance, and this time he did see it.

"What is it?" His heart had begun to race the moment this conversation started, and it had yet to abate. This news was everything he had longed for, for years now, but the dour-faced men sitting across from him did not seem to share his joy, and the bitter sting of disappointment hung in the air, breathless and waiting like a guillotine poised to fall.

"She sent this letter, along with her regards," Bill said, rifling through the file of paperwork he'd brought with him and producing a sheet of plain stationary. "We had it translated, of course, if you would prefer to read it in English."

"I can read the Chinese," Lucien answered, taking the paper at once. The characters had been formed neatly, in a steady hand, and as he looked at them he thought to himself, _she wrote this. My daughter. Her hands formed these words, and sent them to me._ What a gift that was; he could not touch her, but he could hold this page, this physical object his own child's hands had touched, could read the words that had come from her heart across the sea to find his own. His hands were still shaking, and so he smoothed the page out on the tabletop in front of him, and began to read.

_My esteemed father, _the letter began, _I am pleased to learn that you are well. I thought of you often when I was small. I hope that life has been kind to you, and I wish you every happiness. _

The words were pleasant enough, but there was a stilted, almost formal inflection to them that troubled Lucien a very great deal. This was not the effusive declaration of love his father's heart had hoped for. _I thought of you often when I was small _in particular felt rather like a barb, as if she were trying to tell him that she no longer thought of him at all. He read on, despondent, desperate.

_I understand that you wish me to join you in your country, but I must decline the invitation. My home and my family are in Shanghai. I have married, and am expecting a child. I wish only to be left in peace. What has been done cannot be undone. You may write to me, if you wish, and we may come to understand one another in time, but I will not leave my home. Respectfully yours, Li Chen. _

Tears had formed at the corners of his eyes as he continued to read, and he made no attempt to hide them; the letter had been translated already, and so both Bill and Patrick knew its contents, and must have known how it would wound him. Grief and joy bit at him, tearing his heart to pieces; how could it be, he wondered, that he could feel such disparate emotions, so many contradictory things all at once? His child was alive, and she had found a family, found love, was even now expecting a child of her own. He was going to be a _grandfather,_ and that thought alone was so delightful he could hardly remain sitting in his chair, had to fight back a desire to leap to his feet and cry out with relief. And yet, her tone had been distant, and she had made it plain that she had no intention of seeing him. For so many years it was only the thought of seeing her again that kept him from putting an end to his misery, only the thought of his dear Li that kept him alive. And now she was so close, almost within his grasp, and yet rejecting his affections.

"She's expecting a child," he murmured, not realizing he'd spoken aloud until Bill answered him.

"The letter was written about a month ago. The agents who delivered it to us said she wasn't showing yet, but I imagine that's changed by now."

That might explain why she still looked so slender in the photograph he held; a whole month had passed, and every day she would be changing, drawing closer and closer to the dawn of her own motherhood. _Mei Lin should have been there for her,_ he thought bleakly. _A girl should have her mother, at a time like this. _

"Of course this presents a bit of a problem for us," Patrick said then. "We share in your joy, Your Majesty, knowing that your daughter is alive, but if she remains determined not to accept her birthright -"

"That is a problem for another day," Lucien cut him off sharply, carefully folding the letter and slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Gentlemen, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that this is a lot of information for me to digest all at once. I will discuss the details with you, and I would like to send a letter of my own, but I don't want to get into any of that just now. I need a little time. If that's all right."

They could hardly refuse him, though he could see Bill wanted to. Likely both the intelligence chief and the Prime Minister were eager to bring her home, through any means necessary. Several soldiers had been sent to collect Lucien, after all, told to gather up the heir to the throne regardless of his personal wishes and bring him home post haste. Lucien could not stomach the thought of putting his daughter through the same ordeal he had endured himself; she had not seen him since she was a child, hardly more than a toddler, and she had built a life all her own. If they were to, as she put it, _come to understand one another, _if they were ever to cultivate a relationship with one another, he knew that such deliberate interference on his part would only serve to make her hate him. He could not order her around, could not destroy her life and uproot her from the only home she'd ever truly known. However he approached her, he knew he must be gentle. And he likewise knew that in that moment he was incapable of making such a delicate decision. Not now, when his heart was in turmoil, when the tears were still damp on his cheeks, when he could not still the racing of his hands.

"As you wish, Your Majesty," Patrick said, though he ground the words out from between clenched teeth.

The little meeting broke up then, but Lucien paid no mind to the niceties. He was in need of counsel, but it was not the advice of the politicians or the spies he needed, was not the heartless words of men who thought only of the crown and the kingdom. He needed the wisdom of a mother, in that moment.

And so he rose and left the counsel room at once, his feet carrying him out into the castle proper. It was lunchtime; Peter would have arranged for a meal to be delivered to his quarters, but the servants would be eating in the kitchen, some at the little wooden table and others standing about, some drifting through to pick up a sandwich before racing off to other duties, all of them talking, laughing, ducking the good-natured swats of the cooks who were trying to go about their business with all of their friends underfoot.

He made his way there unerringly, one hand pressed to his stomach as if the force of his own touch could keep his emotions at bay, just a little while longer. The thoughts that swam through his mind were hardly more than fragments, shattered images and half-formed longings. _I will not leave my home - _it was Mei Lin's voice that spoke those words in the vaults of his mind, for he could not imagine what his daughter's voice would sound like now - and _you may write to me, if you wish, _and _what is done cannot be undone, _and over it, above it all, the most important urging, _you must find Jean. Jean will know what to do._

The servants scattered like a flock of ducks set upon with a rifle as he came storming into the kitchen. Those who were sitting rose to their feet with a clatter of cutlery and the scraping of chairs, bows and curtsies offered to him quickly by the two dozen or so terribly confused people who had gathered in that place. Lucien tried to scan the crowd but gave up the attempt almost at once; everything seemed to tilt and whirl around him, his vision no more clear than his thoughts had been.

"Jean!" he called sharply. "Where is Mrs. Beazley?"

_I shouldn't have said her name. _The thought vanished as quickly as it would come; later he would worry about this breach of propriety. In the moment finding her was the only thing that mattered.

"Here, Your Majesty," she answered, stepping out from around a corner, a frown on her face. She was wiping her hands on her apron, and at the sight of her his shoulders sagged in relief.

"I need to speak to you," he said. "Can we…" he gestured vaguely towards the door. Of course he hadn't really thought this through, and now he felt a bit sheepish; everyone was staring at him, and word would be all over the castle within the hour, everyone whispering about how the king himself had come stumbling into the kitchen, calling Mrs. Beazley by her Christian name and demanding a private audience with a wild look upon his face.

"Of course," she said, though somewhat warily.

And so she came to him, and he manged to refrain from offering her his arm, only holding the kitchen door open so she could step through it. He followed in her wake, having no idea where they ought to go but knowing only that they must go there together. Later he would worry; in the moment, he needed her too badly to think better of it.


	25. Chapter 25

_10 April 1959_

The king was visibly shaken and his eyes had a glazed, dazed sort of look about them, as if he did not quite know where he was or how he had come to be there, and so Jean took charge, led him down the corridor to one of the small, unoccupied offices that littered the ground floor of the castle. The king stepped into the room and Jean neatly closed the door behind him, crossing her arms over her chest and watching him warily. Obviously something big was afoot, something important, something dramatic enough to make him forget himself entirely, and whatever it was she feared it. He was an enthusiastic man even at the calmest of times, but this was something else; he seemed to crack and fizzle like a downed electrical wire, and she feared they were both about to be burned. And though a part of her was desperately curious a quiet, uneasy piece of her heart was troubled, given over now to worry about the future. What he had just done, storming into the kitchen and calling out her Christian name for all to hear with that look of dire need upon his face, would set the gossip mill to whirling, and she knew she would be forced to spend the next few weeks carefully handling a multitude of questions presented with varying degrees of finesse. Some explanation must be given, but it would need to be delivered in a nonchalant, unbothered sort of way, lest she give rise to further suspicions by protesting too vehemently. It would be a delicate, unbearable tightrope to walk, and there was no guarantee she would not emerge with her reputation intact, and _he _had done this, all unthinking.

But she could not curse him for his foolishness, not now when he seemed so troubled. Perhaps that would come later, but in the moment she wanted only to help him.

"What is it?" she asked him when he did not speak. He was simply standing there, his back towards the door, smoothing one hand over his hair while the other pressed tight to his side, perhaps, she thought, to hide the evidence of its trembling.

"They've found her, Jean," he said simply, his voice as unsteady as his hands.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what he was talking about, who he meant, but then she considered his extreme distress, and the answer came to her at once.

"Your daughter?" she asked, suddenly breathless.

His face broke out into a wide, brilliant smile. "My Li. My little girl. Safe and well."

In that moment Jean wanted, very much, to hold him. He had been waiting, for such a terribly long time, frightened and bereft, a father with no child, and to know now that his daughter had been found, that she was _safe and well, _that his hopes had been fulfilled and he no longer had to fret was a joyous, beautiful thing. From the moment he'd told her of his child Jean had been heartsick for him, thinking only how desolate she would be, if she were in his shoes, and now she could see his relief, could almost feel it, and she rejoiced in it. But he was her king, and despite the impropriety of their last encounter at the country manor she was determined to restrain his more reckless impulses - and her own.

And so she did not fling her arms around his neck, did not kiss his cheek and embrace as she dearly longed to do. Instead she only reached for him, wrapped her hand around the hardness of his bicep and gave him a gentle squeeze.

"Oh, Your Majesty," she said. "That's wonderful news. I'm happy for you, truly."

He covered her hand with his own, his expression almost grateful, and she wondered then when last he'd been touched by someone who wasn't her. It was the valet's job to help his king dress, but somehow she couldn't imagine _this_ king letting young Peter do up his buttons; somehow she rather thought he would insist on doing that himself. _How lonely he must be, _she thought. His father was dead, his wife as well, his daughter only recently rediscovered; as her mind followed down that path it occurred to her that he had not told her where, exactly, his daughter was, and she was suddenly desperately curious to know. What sort of girl would she be, this child who was Lucien's flesh and blood? Was she bold and tempestuous like her father, or had she inherited some more measured traits from her mother? When would she be coming home? The whole kingdom would be aflutter, once this news got out, and Jean would need to sort out one of the palatial suites on the third floor for her, and she would need gowns, proper gowns befitting a princess, and-

"Where is she?" Jean asked. She'd kept her hand upon him for far longer than was proper, and so with some regret she pulled away, and clasped her hands together in front of her to keep from reaching for him again.

His face fell, and he tucked his hands in his pockets, looking so forlorn now that Jean felt almost dizzy, caught in the riptide of his emotions, flinging them both from one point to another too quickly for her to keep up.

"She's in Shanghai," he said. "A local family took her in, after...well. She's married now, and expecting a baby."

If Jean had thought she was dizzy before it was nothing compared to this; not only had the king found his daughter at long last, but he had found a son-in-law and a grandchild, as well. She rather thought he ought to have been pleased, to know that his daughter was flourishing, to know that he had gone from having no family at all to having all of this, and yet he seemed almost despondent, in that moment.

"She doesn't know me, Jean. She says Shanghai is her home, and she won't leave it."

"Why don't we sit down?" Jean asked him then, reaching for his arm once more and guiding him into one of the chairs that lined the small table in the center of the room. Partly she had done it for his sake, for it seemed as if at moment his legs might cease to hold him, but partly she had done it for her own sake, to buy herself a moment to think.

This girl, this Li, was the heir to the throne, a princess of the kingdom and the hope for their country's future, and she was Lucien's _daughter_, the child he had dreamt of through nearly two decades of grief, but she did not want to come to him. In choosing to stay in Shanghai she had spurned both her father and her birthright, and threatened to plunge them all into chaos. Jean did not even want to imagine what it might do to her king's poor heart, should his child reject him utterly, and when he shattered, the whole kingdom would shatter with him. And without an heir the politicians would be ruthless; her king was not a young man, and he carried a heavy burden upon his shoulders.

"Surely she isn't angry with you?" Jean asked, trying to wrap her head around the situation, and all the many implications of what her king had just told her.

"Not angry, I don't think," he said slowly. He reached into his pocket, and produced a neatly folded sheet of stationary.

"She sent me this." He started to hand it to Jean, and then his expression grew rueful. "I'm sorry, it's in Chinese. I don't imagine you could read it." He folded the letter and tucked it back into his pocket, and then ran his hand thoughtfully across his beard. "Come to think of it, I don't even know if she speaks English, now," he mused. "She spoke it beautifully when she was a child, but it's been seventeen years since the last time she would have had the opportunity, I don't know how much she remembers."

"What did the letter say, Lucien?" Jean prodded him gently, trying to get him back on track.

"Just that she has no intention of joining me here. That Shanghai is her home and she won't leave it. She says I could write to her but...honestly, Jean, how do I put this in a letter? How do I tell her about the invasion, and the camp, and all the years I spent trying to find her and her mother, and how I came to be here, and how badly I wish that she would come home? She's spent most of her life as an ordinary girl in China. We didn't tell her, when she was small, who I was. She didn't know that she was a princess. And now...now I think she doesn't want to have anything to do with me. Or any of it."

"It would be a lot for anyone to take in," Jean said, trying to find some sense of reason in the chaos before her. "You struggled when you first came here, and you've known you were going to be king since you were born."

"And I've spent most of my life trying to avoid that responsibility. I can hardly fault her for trying to do the same. I just..._Christ, _Jean, I need to see her. I need to hold her. I need to speak to her, but she's on the other side of the bloody world. A letter! I wouldn't even know where to begin."

An idea came to Jean, then. It seemed to her that when presented with a problem the simplest solution was often the best one, and she could think of no better choice for her king now. It would require a great deal of effort and some fast talking, but it was the easiest way to set her king's heart at rest, and give him what he wanted most.

"Why don't you go to her, then?" she asked.

The king stared at her for a moment, aghast, and then he sighed and rubbed his hand across his beard again.

"I _can't," _he said, his voice short and angry. "I've got a bloody kingdom to run."

"But you said it yourself, you want to see her. And I think you're right. I think she deserves to hear the truth from you, in person, not through a letter. Letters get lost, or intercepted, and even if it reaches her it isn't a conversation. You'd have to wait weeks for an answer. What your daughter needs is _you."_

"They won't let me-"

"How can they stop you?" she asked, somewhat tartly. "You're the king, aren't you?"

The newspapers all said that their little kingdom enjoyed a fairly cordial relationship with the Chinese; she was thinking that perhaps he could arrange an official state visit, and quietly meet with his daughter on the side. He was the _king;_ he could take a far less diplomatic approach and order a military plane to transport him there that very day, if he wished.

He was looking at her now like she was quite the most miraculous thing he'd ever seen, as if it had never occurred to him before that now being king afforded him power, as well as responsibility. In a distant corner of her mind she wondered how much of the last few months he'd spent taking orders from the politicians, rather than the other way around, and wondered, too, if she'd just unleashed a disaster upon them all.

"Jean, you are a marvel," he breathed.

And then, before she could stop him, before she'd even realized what he was doing, he leaned across and took her face in his hands, and kissed her gently before vaulting from his chair and all but running from the room. In his wake Jean sat, bemused and somewhat frightened, a blush staining her cheeks as the sensation of his kiss lingered on her lips. She hoped that she had done the right thing; now she supposed she could do nothing else but wait, and see how events played out. For his sake, she hoped it would be all to the good, but that remained to be seen.


	26. Chapter 26

_27 April 1959_

It took a fortnight to make all the necessary arrangements. It would have taken longer, in truth, if Lucien had not run roughshod over nearly all of the suggested security protocols and diplomatic events. Lucien had no interest in meeting with the Chairman - who, mercifully, did not appear particularly interested in meeting with _him, _either - and he did not want to endure a state dinner or a ball at his country's embassy or any of the rest of the proposed ceremonies, not when people were starving in the countryside in China and his daughter was waiting. Though it had nearly driven Matthew into fits Lucien refused to travel with a grand retinue of soldiers, requesting instead no more than two dozen of his own castle guardsmen. Lucien would have been content with just three of them, Matthew and Danny and Charlie, but Charlie was still out of commission and Matthew had been unwavering on the point of his king's security. After a lengthy discussion - shouting match might have been a more apt description - Lucien had finally convinced his old friend that arriving with a platoon of soldiers would likely only cause friction between their country and the People's Republic of China. He was not coming as a king or a foreign invader; he was coming as a father, and as such he had no time for pomp and circumstance.

The plan was a not a simple one. He would fly to China in the company of his protective detail, and be met at the airstrip in Beijing by his appointed ambassador to China, and some other dignitaries. From there he would be delivered to his country's embassy. He would spend the night in the embassy and the following morning his retinue would fly from Beijing to Shanghai. The ambassador was managing the arrangements of Lucien's visit with his daughter, and he currently planned to spend a single night in a fine hotel in Shanghai after he met her, before beginning the laborious journey home. It was a lot of effort to spend a single day with Li, but she was more than worth it, and somewhere in his heart Lucien harbored the hope that their meeting would go well, that he would extend his stay at least another day or two, that he might talk happily with his child, meet her husband, perhaps even meet the people who had raised her. It was a fierce hope, but a fragile one; her letter had not been particularly warm, and Lucien knew that one wrong word from him would put an end to any good rapport between them, likely forever.

There was no way to fly direct from Lucien's home to Beijing and they would be forced to make two stops along the way. It would have been faster, Lucien supposed, to fly east, but that would mean a stop over Turkey or perhaps the USSR, and neither place would be particularly welcoming to him, just then. Politics demanded that instead they fly west, and he would be forced to endure two days in the United States. During his stay in China Lucien knew that the Chairman and his spies would be invisible and yet keeping a close eye on the visiting king, but in the States things would be different; they would be watching him out in the open. Ike did not want to let the opportunity for a meeting of the minds to pass him by, and Lucien had been cordially - but firmly - invited to a dinner at the White House. His one consolation was that he had managed to put that visit off until his return trip; at that moment, he could think of nothing but Li, and the machinations of the American president did not interest him in the slightest.

The trip from his home to Washington had been uneventful, and so too had been the evening spent in the embassy. They were up again at first light, bearing west; they had stopped for the night in Alaska, in a small hotel that was otherwise entirely unoccupied, though Lucien could not say whether that was done for his sake, or just the result of a lack of tourists at that season, when snow was still on the ground. The next morning they were up again, this time bound for Beijing. It was a dreadfully long flight, and though he could not see it Lucien fancied a shiver had run through him as they passed over Malaya, the memory of a thousand grievous wounds all beginning to itch at once. Returning to this corner of the world was more bitter than sweet, but he would do whatever was necessary just to see his child again.

And those were the steps of the journey that led him here, how he came to be sitting on a plane, a commercial airliner now filled only with wide-eyed castle guardsmen and a few somewhat frightened looking stewardesses. Lucien was sitting by a window, staring out at the racing clouds that surrounded them, when Matthew plonked himself down in the next seat.

"I still don't like it," Matthew grumbled, propping his cane up next to his seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

"We're almost there," Lucien answered. "It's not as if we can just turn the plane around."

"I didn't say I don't think you should go. I said I don't like this plan. There's too many holes. Security is too light. Do you have any idea what would happen to the rest of us if you go and get yourself killed?"

"I imagine it would be very unpleasant, but then if I'm dead it's not really my problem, is it?"

Matthew barked out a laugh. Though initially he had been mindful of the differences in their station Lucien had slowly worn him down over the last six months, and their conversations had grown lighter, easier to bear. Sometimes, Lucien felt as if he had been transported back to the old days, when he was the prince and Matthew was the cook's son and they would tear through the corridors of the castle without a care in the world. He took great comfort in Matthew's cheek, just now.

"I would love to know who put this hairbrained scheme in your head," Matthew added. And perhaps it _was_ a bit mad, the way it had all come together. A ten day trip, most of it spent travelling through the air at breakneck speeds, more time spent in hotels than in embassies or palaces; it was hardly the way a king navigated the world. And yet it was the method Lucien had chosen, for it was the most efficient way to reach his child, and she was the only thing that mattered to him in all the world.

At least, she was the thing that mattered most; perhaps not the only thing, however, for Matthew's question had reminded Lucien of something - _someone -_ else that mattered to him a great deal. For a moment he considered answering truthfully, explaining that it was Jean who opened his eyes, Jean who had reminded him of the power he commanded, reminded him that he must bow to no man's wishes. He was the bloody _king, _and that meant that sometimes he must be the one to give the orders, and let others follow as best they could. He was neither so arrogant nor so foolish as to think that he could make every decision necessary to keep his kingdom afloat, but he was certain that in this instance he knew best. But Matthew had warned him once, on the subject of Jean, and so Lucien did not speak her name now. At least he did not speak it aloud; it echoed in the chambers of his heart, where his soul missed her so dearly he almost ached with it. He was flying into the unknown, about to confront his daughter for the first time in seventeen years, and in that moment he longed for Jean, her gentle wisdom, her tender touch. If only she were with him, she might have offered him counsel, might have consoled him, might have comforted him and led him to the right path, but he was bereft without her.

"What makes you think I didn't come up with it on my own?" he asked lightly, keeping his lonesome thoughts of his housekeeper to himself.

Matthew shot him a dark look, but then the voice of the pilot echoed through the plane.

"Gentlemen," he said, "please fasten your seat belts. We are now beginning our descent."

* * *

A telegram arrived, around 4:00 in the morning, and Jean was the only person in the castle awake to receive it. Well, not the only one; the cooks were stirring about, kneading bread and brewing coffee and shuffling through the kitchens, and Alice had found her in a corner of the library, rubbing her sleepy eyes and offering the telegram for her inspection. The king had arrived, safe and sound in Beijing, and Jean breathed a sigh of relief. It was the third such telegram they'd received, and each time she had felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. He had made it safely, from their home to Washington, then to Alaska, now to China. Jean had never flown on a plane in all her life, and the thought of her king hurtling through all that empty air had terrified her, though she had not breathed a word of that fear to anyone.

His tribulations were hardly at an end; he would have another flight, in about twelve hours' time, and then would be several more days in foreign countries where Jean could not see him, could not speak to him, could not see for herself that he was well, and she knew she would worry for him every minute he was away. But these fears she kept to herself, for it would not do to reveal just how very much she cared for him, just how very much she _missed _him.

In addition to the telegram Alice had brought coffee, and she offered Jean a cup as she settled into the next chair, leaning back and stretching her legs out in front of her.

"It would be so much easier if I were there," Alice said. That had been a point of contention, Jean recalled. Alice was the king's Personal Secretary, and arranging his travel should have been her purview. But the intelligence service had muscled in and taken over, and Alice had been left behind, and the king had been too desperate to leave to fight for her.

"At least we know he's all right," Jean answered, taking a sip of tea. She had not seen him, had not spoken to him since that day he'd dragged her from the kitchen; he had been caught in a whirlwind of plans, and she had been fettered by fears for both their reputations. But that day, that last time they'd stood together, alone, he had looked at her with wonder and kissed her lips and her heart ached, now, to have him so far from her side. _Friends, _they had declared themselves, _friends _and no more, but as each day passed without him Jean was beginning to realize how foolish that declaration had truly been. A friend could be missed, longed for, worried over, but the pining in her heart was not that of friendship. Without his gentle smile, without his warm voice, without any chance to stand alone with him, sipping tea and talking quietly to one another, she felt herself utterly bereft. And that kiss! It had been tender, but casual, as if he had not even realized he was doing it, and the subconscious way he had done it spoke louder than any words could have done; his mind had been racing, but his heart had wanted her, and reached for her in an instant, forgetting all about his vow not to kiss her. The intimacy of that affection had left her stunned and recalling all too clearly the night he'd kissed her on the battlements, all roaming hands and searching tongue and burning passion, and it had woken a desire in her that could not be tamed.

Of course Alice knew nothing at all of her turmoil, and picked up right where she'd left off.

"I don't like this plan," she said. "He's out in the open. And two dozen guards won't make one bit of difference, not if someone decides-"

"Really, Alice, surely you don't think-"

"Someone tried to kill him here. Why wouldn't they try there? It would certainly be easier."

That thought had occurred to Jean as well, but she had tried to console herself, tried to believe that the elements who wanted her king dead were homegrown, and would not dare venture so far afield in order to wreak such havoc on foreign soil.

"And if his daughter really is determined not to come home...well. I for one have no intention of serving King Edward."

That didn't even bear thinking about; the king's cousin Edward was a brute and a Nazi sympathizer and to hear some tell it a wife-beater as well; Jean could think of nothing more wretched, than to replace her brilliant, compassionate king with the likes of Edward. It would be, she thought, a calamity from which none of them would recover.

"He'll come home," Jean said firmly. _He has to, _she added in her mind. _I have to see him again. _


	27. Chapter 27

_28 April 1959_

It was a Tuesday, and the weather was warm, and Lucien and his entourage had descended upon a small hotel in a prosperous corner of Shanghai. He had been ferried there as if by magic, for in truth he could not recall one single thing that had happened between the moment he woke and the moment he stepped into that hotel. All that mattered in the world was Li, and he had known once the sun rose that she was close, that he would meet her, and all his being had focused on that one truth.

His ambassador to this country, a gregarious man named Frank Carlyle, had escorted him to a fine open room in the depths of the hotel; perhaps it had been a ballroom once, but no one had danced there for many a long year, and Lucien doubted whether they ever would again. Frank had swung the grand doors wide and Lucien's gaze had fixed at once on the center of the room, on a small table with one chair on either side of it. The chair nearest him was empty, but the other certainly wasn't.

If he had taken the time to examine his surroundings he would have noticed the police stationed around the perimeter of the room, would have noticed the way his guards eyed them uneasily. He would have noticed that chairs had been brought for his retinue, and that throughout the course of that day those chairs sat empty for his guards remained determined to stand, watching their king from a close but respectful distance. He would have noticed that food and drink had been prepared, set neatly on a second table off to the side. As it was he took no note of any of it, for at that table in the center of the room, sitting in that one occupied chair, there was a young woman with long, dark hair and a stern expression on her face.

_She's taller than her mother._

That was the first thing Lucien thought upon seeing his daughter again for the first time in nearly two decades. Before that moment he had hoped that when he looked at her he would think how beautiful she was, would feel the call of his blood in her veins, a bond so unshakable, mystical in its power, that he would understand the moment he set eyes on her that she was the one, that she was his own flesh and blood. And she was, and he did feel it, to a certain extent, took one look at this young woman's hard, unsmiling face and felt a wave of love crash over him so strong and so fierce he was almost swept away by it, but the thing that struck him most was how tall she was.

Li was, of course, not quite as tall as himself, but as near as he could reckon she was of a height with Jean, which meant she had outstripped Mei Lin at some point when she was growing, and a strange pain pierced his chest as that thought struck home, as he realized it was another moment they'd missed. They should have had more _time, _and there should have come a day when Mei Lin looked upon her child and pretended to pout as she realized she was now looking up to her daughter, rather than the other way around. Mei Lin would not have been disappointed, he knew, and would have taught their child to walk with dignity no matter how her body changed, but Mei Lin was gone, and all that remained of her were the memories he carried within his own heart. Perhaps Li remembered her as well, but Li's memories would be the fuzzy, insubstantial images of a child's mind, and Lucien could still recall his wife so clearly at times he felt almost as if he had conjured the ghost of her to stand beside him.

Li rose when Lucien entered the room, and he went straight to her. He did not run, did not cry out her name, did not fling out his arms and reach to embrace her; he wanted to, and his whole body was quivering with the need to hold her, but he kept his hands by his side for he knew that such a display would only discomfit her, and he could not bear to embarrass her, or turn her against him before they'd even spoken. So he only walked, quickly, his shiny black shoes ringing impatiently across the marble while the _tap tap tap_ of Matthew's cane followed him at a more stately pace.

As he approached Li stood tall-backed and still, though her gaze darted over his shoulder, no doubt counting the uniformed guards who'd accompanied him, searching their faces as if she was not entirely sure who she was looking for, as if despite his haste she did not immediately realize that the bearded man in his fine navy suit who was bearing down upon her was the father who had come at last to claim her. When he reached the table Lucien curled his hands around the back of the chair in front of him, and stared at her face unblinking, awe-struck and overcome.

"Li?" he said. It was her, of course it was her; Mei Lin's face had never been quite that emotionless, her eyes had never been quite so cold, but Li favored her mother, and Lucien could see the echo of his wife in this young woman's face. Her clothing was plain and utilitarian as was the custom in that time and that place, but the long tunic she wore was dyed a dark blue, and there was a piece of Lucien's heart that rejoiced to see it.

"Are you him?" she answered him in Mandarin.

A wide grin burst across his face; he could not help it. Here was his child, whole and well, and that was her voice, speaking to him now, and the words came spilling out of him, his heart eager and full of hope.

"I am," he answered her in his own tongue. He pressed his right hand to his heart, covered it with his left, and then gave a small bow in greeting. The guards behind him did not speak, but he could feel the sudden rise of their unease, could sense the way they shifted and tensed; they were in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, and they could not understand a word that was said, and their king had just bowed his head to a foreigner in a gesture of deference that would have been unthinkable back home. But he rather thought it was the right thing to do, for Li's expression softened infinitesimally, and as he raised his head he saw her mirror the gesture, folding her hands over her heart and bowing her head.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to see you again," he said earnestly. "I have dreamed of this day."

"So did I, once," she told him. They were still standing, frozen for a moment as the reality of the situation crashed in on them; a tear threatened to fall from the corner of Lucien's eye as he looked at her, this beautiful, quiet woman who was his daughter. The tunic she wore was loose-fitting, but he could see the rise of her stomach, just beginning to press against the fabric, and the tear did escape him then as he thought of how wonderful it was, that she had found a family, a home, that she had married and was now expecting a child of her own. She was going to be a mother, his own child, and though it was strange to think so much time had passed his heart was full of love to have her here with him now.

"Please, sit," he said, gesturing towards the chair. She waited a beat, as if she did not intend to sit until he did, but she folded herself neatly into the chair as Lucien took his own, as he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

"I suppose you have a lot of questions."

Across the table Li regarded him gravely. "I do," she agreed. But she did not ask them; she folded her hands together in her lap and looked at him, dark eyes wide and watchful, and Lucien tried desperately to calm his racing heart, to make some sense of the jumble of his thoughts, the riot of his emotions. This was not the warm, joyful reunion he had hoped for, but she was _here, _right in front of him, and he drank in the sight of her hungrily. For so long he had been lost, utterly adrift, lost in darkness with neither love nor connection to sustain him, but at last he was finding his way, and whatever else she might have been Li was his _family, _and he loved her with his whole heart.

"May I tell you my story, Li?" He wanted to call her _sweetheart, _or _my darling, _wanted to tell her how he loved her, but to her he was no more than a stranger, and given her reserved behavior he didn't think she would appreciate such demonstrative affection from him. What he needed, more than anything, was to tell her the truth, all of it, to hope that she might forgive him, and come to understand him in time.

"Yes," she said, her composure slipping just for a moment as the word came tumbling eagerly from her lips. She _wanted_ to know, and he wanted to tell her. But where to begin?

"Where do I start?" he asked aloud, though he knew she would not answer him. Did he begin with his childhood in the castle, the first steps along the long and bumpy road that brought him to Singapore? Would any of that matter to her? "You must know, I loved your mother." That was the important thing, he realized. For so long Li had not known what had become of her parents, her real parents, and if she learned nothing else this day he needed her to know this, that she was born of love, and had been loved herself. "I loved her desperately. She was...she was my life, Li, and you were my joy. I have to show you…" his voice trailed off as he reached into his pocket, and withdrew an old photograph. It was the picture he had given to Patrick when the search had begun in earnest. In it Lucien was sitting, and Mei Lin was standing behind him, and Li was standing beside him, his hand broad and heavy on her shoulder. They were not smiling, but there was happiness in that photo just the same, their warmth and familiarity with one another shining through. The colors were worn and faded, and he knew that he had changed much in the intervening years - though not as much as Li - but the faces in the photograph were still impossible to deny. Li reached for it, and he watched as she gazed at it, as her hand began to tremble.

"We were happy, and our home was full of love," he told her. He did not want her to doubt that, not even for a moment. "But then the Japanese came."

And so, haltingly, he told his story. Told her of the way he had met her mother, how they had come to be wed, how the war loomed ever closer. He told her of the decision he and Mei Lin had come to, very reluctantly, to send his girls away. How he had sent Derek Alderton with them, in the hopes that having a soldier in their midst would keep them safe. How when their ship sank he himself had been battered and bleeding, wasting away in a prisoner of war camp. How he had been trapped there for three long years -

"Three years?" Li interrupted him sharply. Lucien nodded, not understanding the importance of the time frame, but then she noted his confusion and explained herself. "I was six when I left the orphanage. They kept me for two years, and then decided no one was coming for me. They told me I wasn't wanted-"

"No, _qiān jīn," _the old endearment came tumbling out for Lucien was too distressed to stop it. "I didn't know where you were, what had happened. I was trapped. I would have cut off my own arm to save you but I didn't _know. _You were always wanted. You were always loved." His voice was a choked and ragged thing but he still managed to speak the words, to tell her this most earnest truth.

For a long moment she was silent, as if she were trying to determine whether or not he was telling the truth, but then at last she urged him to continue, and so he did. He told her of how he was freed at the end of the war, told her of how he had ended his tenure with the British Army and made his way at once to Hong Kong - though he did not tell her of the work he did there, how he sustained himself for years working as an agent for the British government, for no one, not even Sir Patrick, knew their king had been a spy for another kingdom, nor would they if he had anything to say about it - how he had hired private investigators and tried every possible avenue to find his family, with no success. And then he told her of his father's death, and how he had returned to his homeland, and how with the help of his country's resources he had at last been able to locate her.

"Why didn't you go home sooner?" she asked him seriously. "It did not take your men long to find me. When you had no success yourself, why did you not turn to them for help?"

_Why, indeed?_ The question flummoxed him, for it had never occurred to him before now that there might have been another way, that if he had only returned to his home after the war and told his father the truth he might have been able to save his child years before. Shame welled up within him, hot and sharp, and his hand trembled with the sudden want of whiskey. He could have spared them both so much grief, it had been within his power, but he had hated his father, had been so certain that his foreign wife, his foreign child would not be accepted in the castle, and he had never even tried. Li, though, Li had seen that rather obvious solution at once, and he wondered now if she would hate him for the rest of her life as a result of his own inaction.

"Forgive me, _qiān jīn," _he said miserably. "Perhaps I should have, but I did not. I thought I could find you, and after so many years I thought…" _I thought you were dead already, and there was a part of my heart that did not want to know for certain. _

"What is done cannot be undone," she told him, the same words she'd written in her letter, but when she spoke them now it felt less like an accusation than it had in print. "I was adopted by a kind family, and they treated me as their own child. In time even I forgot that I wasn't."

"And have you been happy?" he asked, for that mattered to him, a very great deal.

Through the course of their conversation some of Li's character had revealed itself, and he had found that she was not given to platitudes or emotionalism; she meant each word she said, and she kept her heart closely guarded. As he looked at her now he could see that she must have been weighing her words very carefully.

"I have been content," she answered at last. "I have a good family, and a good husband, and a good home. But always I have wondered...I have wondered about you. You were a stranger to me, a white man who abandoned his Chinese wife and child. And when they told me you were a king...I have thought unkind thoughts about you. And for that I ask your forgiveness."

"There's nothing to forgive," he answered at once, reaching his hand across the table all unthinking. "You've done nothing wrong."

And then, to his surprise and his delight, she reached out and took his hand in her own. "Neither have you," she told him.


	28. Chapter 28

_8 May 1959_

"Aren't you supposed to be in charge of him?" Sir Patrick was saying. "What the bloody hell does he think he's doing, any way?"

"There isn't much I can do from here," Alice answered coolly. "And since Bill Hobart decided I wasn't needed-"

"Bloody Bill Hobart," Sir Patrick grumbled.

Jean's mother had taught her that it was wrong to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, but there was a certain risk inherent in the work she did; she flitted in and out of rooms all day, slipped silently down the corridors of power and lingered on the edges of parties and meetings with some of the most influential people in the kingdom, and during her tenure in the castle she had overheard more than her fair share of interesting - and incendiary - conversations. Such moments were almost always entirely accidental, a case of being caught in the wrong place at the right time, or her uniform of dark navy dress and white dress having made her invisible to the more noteworthy guests in her home. She did not gossip, did not share little tidbits of news she had gleaned from these clandestine encounters, but she remembered every word, and took them all to heart.

On this particular day she had been polishing the silver in the counsel room. Ordinarily such a task would have been undertaken by someone less experienced than she, but the items in this room were precious and her hands itched for want of occupation, and so she had taken it upon herself. Sir Patrick and Alice Harvey had come storming in together, but when she made to leave Sir Patrick had waved his hand and said _it's nothing you don't know already, Mrs. Beazley, _and told her to carry on. So she did, sitting at the far end of the counsel table while Sir Patrick and Alice sat at the other, discussing their wayward monarch.

"He should have been home by now," Sir Patrick continued.

"You saw the same telegram I did, sir," Alice said. "He wanted to spend more time with his daughter."

"It's been over a week! Isn't that enough? He's needed _here, _and every minute he stays there…"

"Is there something you know that I don't, sir?" Alice asked carefully.

In truth, Jean had been wondering the same thing. The King's original itinerary had him spending the night of the 28th of April in Shanghai, then flying back to Beijing, then to Alaska, then to DC where he would spend an evening with the President, and then back home. He should have been home no later than the second or third of May, but here it was the eighth, and he was still in Shanghai. The telegram Alice mentioned had made its way to Jean, as well, and said only that the king had decided to stay on in Shanghai, to spend more time with his child. Other news had reached her; that he had slipped past his security and gone with her to visit the people who had raised her, that he had traveled the countryside with only Matthew and Danny to accompany him, but by the time Sir Patrick had found out about this the deed was already done, and there was nothing the Prime Minister could do but grumble fecklessly. He seemed more than frustrated as he spoke to Alice just now, however, and _that_ was what worried Jean, more than anything.

"Someone's been reporting his movements to the newspapers," Sir Patrick said, a note of weariness in his tone, "and that means that somewhere in this castle there is a leak. If someone knows of his movements, if they can advise the more...disgruntled elements of the King's extended family as to where he'll be, and when, well...it would have been so much easier if he'd just stuck to the original schedule! We had plans in place! We have no contingencies for this. And the longer he stays there…"

"He will come back, sir," Alice said levelly. "You know he will."

"That man never wanted to be king, Miss Harvey. And now he's got a taste of freedom, and his daughter besides. No, I don't know that he will."

All in silence Jean rose, the damp rag she'd been using to polish the silver clutched tight in her trembling hands, and slipped from the room entirely unnoticed by the Prime Minister or the king's personal secretary. Her thoughts were racing, so many disparate hopes and fears tumbling through her mind that she hardly knew where she was going, and hardly cared.

Sir Patrick was afraid that the king was not coming home, and it was not until this moment that Jean allowed herself to admit that she shared that same fear. He could be tempestuous, unpredictable, this king of hers, and she knew, now, after many long conversations witnessed only by the twinkling stars above or the glittering appliances in the deserted kitchen that a part of him missed the life he'd led before. The life he'd led when he had been free to come and go as he pleased, when he had been a soldier, a doctor, a husband, a father. He was not much concerned with statecraft and had in fact allowed the politicians do as they pleased with very little input from himself. How tempting it might be, she thought, for such a man to find himself in a foreign country - one where he perhaps might have felt more comfortable than he did in their little kingdom, considering how much time he'd spent in that part of the world - with no one dictating the order of his days, with his daughter close to hand. How tempting it might be to feel the wind on one's face, the dirt beneath one's feet, far from responsibility and the shades of grief. There was a piece of Jean's heart that longed for freedom, too; she knew how that longing could wind its way around a heart, and squeeze and squeeze until there was nothing left to do but run, or perish.

Her feet had carried her to the king's suite. There was no one in the corridor to see her, and so she slipped inside, drifting listlessly through the rooms until at last she seated herself on the end of his grand bed. Jean tended these rooms each day, determined to keep them fresh and clean for the king's imminent arrival, but there was something lonesome and terrible about seeing them so empty, particularly when she did not know for certain if he would ever set foot in that place again.

_What if he never comes back? _She thought as she sat, her back ramrod straight, her hands still twisting the rag round and round. _What if he decides he's happier there? What will become of us, without him? What will become of me?_

It was selfish, she knew, to even think such a thing, but she could not deny it, not here in this place that still smelled ever so faintly of his cologne. She _missed_ him, and she wanted, more than anything else, to see him again. To hear his soft voice, to see his gentle smile, to feel his broad hand on her shoulder or elbow or at the small of her back. She wanted him to come _home_, wanted to walk up on the battlements in the warmth of a spring evening and wait for him there, knowing he was coming, delighted still when he arrived. It was not her place to yearn for him, to want anything more than the friendship they'd declared between themselves, but she could content herself with friendship, could keep her love and her need and her want locked away inside herself, if only he were _here_. To be abandoned by him, to know that whatever he felt for her, whatever responsibility he felt towards his people, paled in comparison to his own selfish desires...she could think of nothing that would wound her more.

Nothing except for that threat Sir Patrick had mentioned, that insidious, desperate fear that wound its way around her heart. What if her king wanted her, what if he wanted to come home to her, but the machinations of evil men conspired to take him from her? What if he stepped from his plane, his feet at last resting on the soil of his homeland, his heart full of hope at the thought of seeing her again, only to be gunned down by some madman with a soul full of hate?

_Hail Mary, full of grace, _Jean began to pray as the tears slipped down her cheeks. _The lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. _

* * *

"I understand," Li said.

They were sitting together at a small table in the corner of the hotel's dining room. It was empty at present, save for the Chinese police and Lucien's guards, and of course Lucien and Li. The hotel's proprietor was a pinch-faced man who seemed quite eager for him to leave, and Lucien couldn't blame him; there was too much fuss, too much work, too much attention required when a king was in residence, and kings were not held in particularly high esteem in that place, particularly not kings from the old guard of Europe who came jaunting in and making demands of the locals with a bevy of armed guards in tow.

"I'm glad," Lucien answered. "You must know, my darling, I don't want to leave you."

She smiled at him softly from across the table. It was not in her nature to smile often, nor to do so simply because it was expected; when Li smiled, she meant it.

"But you must, and so you will," she said firmly.

"I would like to come back to visit, though. Especially once this little one arrives."

She smiled again, brighter this time, and her hand dropped to rest against the gentle swell of her stomach. "I would like that," she said. "Very much."

Whether or not he would ever be able to manage such a feat again, Lucien wasn't entirely sure, but he knew that he wanted it. Sir Patrick had allowed him some leniency this time in the hopes that Lucien might return with the heir to the throne on his arm, but those hopes had been dashed, and he knew he might not be so lucky the next time he tried to slip past the net. There would be so many more challenges, in the future, but of one thing was certain; this would not be the last time he saw his child. He would move all of heaven and earth to make it so.

But she was not coming home with him. Her family, her husband, her friends, her very life were here in this place, and Lucien could not blame her for not wanting to leave. To trade a familiar life for a place where no one spoke her language and everyone would eye her foreigner's face with mistrust would be all but unbearable for her, and Lucien would not ask it of her. Besides, there were elements in his kingdom who wanted to see him dead, and he was loath to put his child in such danger. _Let her stay here_, he told himself, _where she is happy and safe. Christ, just let her be happy. _There was nothing more he wanted in the world, than for her to be happy.

It would complicate things for him upon his return, he knew. A bargain had been struck in good faith, and Sir Patrick had kept up his end of it. It would not do for the King to renege on his promise now. Sir Patrick had found his family, but Lucien would not be returning home with a wife or an heir. When his feet were planted firmly on home ground he would have to turn his thoughts firmly to this promise he had made, and how he intended to go about keeping it.

He knew what his heart wanted. There was only one woman he could imagine himself marrying, spending the rest of his days with. There was only one woman who had the power to make the blood run hot in his veins, and yet could with a few soft words quiet his chaotic mind and point his feet onto the right path. There was only one woman, beautiful, gentle, strong, he wanted in his bed, on his arm. Sir Patrick would not approve of her, but Lucien had not sworn to choose a woman of the Prime Minister's choosing, and he would not allow himself to be backed into a corner. Sir Patrick would want children, but Jean was not so very old yet -

_That_ thought, he knew, was putting the cart very much before the horse. _We'll sort it out later, _he told himself, over and over again. _One thing at a time. _

And so he focused on his meal, and on his daughter, and when at last they could linger no more he rose to his feet, and so did she. It was only then, so many days after first meeting her, that Lucien was finally able to do what he had longed to do for nearly two decades; he wrapped his arms around his child, and held her tight.

"I love you, Li," he whispered to her fiercely.

Her embrace was graceful, but he could feel her trembling in his arms. "I love you, too, Papa," she whispered, and then with her back straight she left him, allowed the police to escort her away, and as he watched her go Matthew came to stand beside him.

"All right?" Matthew asked gruffly as the door closed behind Li.

"Yes," Lucien answered, though his throat was tight with unshed tears. "Let's go to bed, Matthew. Tomorrow we go home."


	29. Chapter 29

_13 May 1959_

It was very late, but Jean was not sleeping. He was coming home today, her beautiful, brilliant king, ten days late but finally returning to her, and though her heart was glad to know that soon he would be back home where he belonged - that he had not spurned her and their homeland in favor of a more exciting life somewhere else - she would not rest easy until she'd laid eyes on him. The threat Sir Patrick had mentioned lingered on the edges of her consciousness, always; her king's love for his daughter was admirable, but it had made him vulnerable, too. There was a risk he might be attacked when he disembarked from his plane; the security services had only a few hours' notice to put their protections in place, and if someone inside the castle was passing that information along it would be no difficult thing to put an end to his reign right there on the tarmac. The plane itself might plummet from the sky; it was all well and good for other people to go hurtling through the air in those deathtraps but Jean did not trust them, and she knew how easily an ordinary day could turn to disaster. It would be a cruel twist of fate indeed, she thought, if her king had resolved to come home, only to be snatched away at the last moment by some mechanical failure. If she'd shared her fears with Alice she was certain Miss Harvey would tell her she was being silly, but fate had been cruel to Jean more times than she could count, and she knew that only the very foolish do not feel fear.

And so she had curled herself beneath the blankets in her little bed, lying in the darkness with her eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling and knowing sleep would not come. It would be better, she thought, to fret in silence and rise with the sun and find him safely in residence than to drift through the corridors of the castle anxious and unoccupied. If her mind had been less tumultuous she might have turned to her book for distraction, but as it was she knew she could not focus on the words, and so she did not even make the attempt. She simply lay there, letting her mind go wherever it willed, not trying to control her wayward thoughts or even to make sense of them.

She wanted him _home. _She wanted to see him, to speak to him, to share tea and a few quiet words with him. She wanted him _here_, where she could keep an eye on him, where she could see for herself that he was safe and well. These things she wanted, and others besides, but beneath her longing her rational mind asserted itself; he was the _king,_ and so could not ever be anything more to her. She could not expect him to court her, could not dream of kissing him, could not think of rings and bodies winding together in the darkness; those things were prohibited her. The longing might remain, but she lacked the ability to act on it. Well, perhaps not the ability; she was certainly able enough, but she knew her place, even if he did not know his own. One of them would have to be strong enough to mind the lines that class and circumstance and power had drawn between them, and the king had proven himself unequal to that task. _He needs me to protect him, _she thought, _from himself, as much as anyone else. _The kingdom was restless; oh, the people loved him, had accepted him into their hearts the moment the newsreels from that day at the hospital had begun to play. In that footage he was magnificent, tall and strong, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, blood on his hands as he tended to Charlie's wound and barked orders with all the command his position implied, disregarding his own safety in the name of caring for the brave lad who had stepped in front of the bullet meant for him. The king had been every inch the soldier in those ghostly images, proud and brave, determined and full of compassion, and yes, the people did love their soldiers, and him most of all. The politicians, and the king's extended family, and indeed most of the nobility, however, did not approve of him at all. To their minds he was reckless and brash and dangerous; unpredictable and uncontrollable he remained a threat to their status quo, and those people so accustomed to comfort and getting their own way did not react well to such a threat. _They _wanted him gone, replaced with someone more like _them, _and Jean feared what would become of their little kingdom, should those angry men succeed.

To her mind, the kingdom did not need another spoilt noble in charge of things, making imperious demands and neglecting the concerns of the common people. King Lucien knew what it was to suffer, to be deprived, to grieve and struggle as any ordinary man might, and that knowledge made him - to Jean's mind - uniquely suited for the task at hand. He did not care for profit or status; he cared for people. It was one of the many things she loved about him.

And so ran the course of her thoughts as she tossed and turned, waiting for daylight and the triumphant return of this man who had somehow become the center of her whole world.

* * *

It was very late when Lucien finally returned to the castle. They had taken a roundabout course from the airstrip to his home, and he had been shuffled in through a seldom used rear entrance. The reason for that, Matthew had told him, was that the security services believed his life was still in danger, and measures had to be taken to ensure his safety. Lucien supposed he ought to be grateful for all the work that had gone into keeping him alive, but he was bone-weary and out of sorts, and he only wanted to be _home_.

As they entered the castle Matthew offered to walk up the stairs with him, to see him to his room, but Lucien gently declined, and sent him off to bed. Likely Matthew was even more exhausted than Lucien was himself, and the stairs would be hard on his leg after so long spent travelling. On another night Lucien might have ignored this and invited him up anyway, enjoyed a nightcap with his old friend, sitting up until the sun rose talking of everything and nothing, but his nerves were restless and he did not think he would be very good company.

There was so much noise in his head he could hardly make sense of it as he mounted the stairs, home at last. He had spent ten glorious, too-short days with his beloved Li, and returned to his kingdom with her address tucked in his bag and the knowledge that she did not despise him treasured in his heart. She was safe, and well, happy enough and loved, and he knew now where she was, how to find her, knew at last what had become of his family. Finally, after so many years, his soul knew peace.

_It was not easier, _Jean had told him once. _But_ _it was a gift. It hurt, but it put an end to that unbearable waiting. _

He understood what she meant, now. Learning that his wife had died had not made him feel _better, _exactly, but it had finally answered the question that had driven him through all the long miserable years, and set him free. He knew, now, that Mei Lin was gone, lost so many years before, and he knew that he could mourn her, and look for her no more. He knew, now, that Li was safe, that while she had spent so long thinking he did not care for her she had finally learned the depth of his love for her, and she loved him now, as he had always wished she would. Without the worry, without the doubt, without the self-recrimination, he could finally begin to live a life of his own choosing, free from all those constraints. He could make his own way, now, unfettered by the past. He was not glad that his wife was dead, was not glad that his daughter would remain so far from his side, but he understood it, and he would fight against it no more.

As if his feet had made the decision entirely unprompted by his rational mind he found that he had stepped off the stairs on the wrong landing. Like a diver coming up from deep water he returned to himself, and saw that he faced a plain wooden door that was not his own. He knew what door this was, who slept on the other side of it, and if he could not quite admit to himself _why _he had come here, still he knew he would not leave this place until he raised his hand and knocked. From the moment he'd left Shanghai the compass in his heart had been pointing unerringly in this direction, and he had reached his desired destination at last. It was not right, was not proper, was probably foolish in the extreme, but now that he was here he could not even contemplate leaving without seeing her face.

He lifted his hand and rapped his knuckles gently against the door, trying not to make too much noise; it would not do for someone else to wake and find him here. What his intentions were, once that door opened, he could not say, but he simply _had _to see her, had to look upon her face and hear her sweet voice and know that she was well, and still here, waiting for him. Everything else could wait; all that mattered in this moment was Jean.

It was Jean who had set his feet on the path towards Shanghai, Jean who had reminded him that he took orders from no one, that his life was his own - within limits. It was Jean's voice he heard in the back of his mind, warning him to be prudent, to hold his tongue, to listen and to treat his daughter gently. It was Jean he had to thank, really, for helping him to restore his relationship with Li, and it was Jean he had to thank for his decision to return here; the thought of her disappointment was enough to remind him that he had obligations back home that could not be ignored. He had gone because of her, and returned because of her as well, and wasn't it strange, that she had become the beginning and the end of everything for him.

After a moment the door swung open. On the other side she stood, disgruntled and mussed from sleep. She wore no makeup, and her soft curls fell all around her face, free from the restraints of pins and fashion. She had taken the time to wrap herself in a horrible pink robe, and her face went pale as she saw him. She looked...soft, and sweet, and lovely, and in that moment he wanted her so badly that he ached with it.

"Jean," he breathed her name in wonder. Over a month had passed since last he'd found himself alone with her, and the sight of her face washed over him like a cool breeze on a sweltering day, relieved him and revived him.

"What on earth are you doing?" she answered, her tone full of fire. He had not meant to cause her distress, but he realized at once that he had, of course he had; coming to her private room in the dead of the night, risking both their reputations and no doubt discomfiting her by his presence, he had overstepped every rule of courtesy and comportment. A small part of him felt guilty, for making her so uncomfortable, for putting her in this position, but the rest of him was so relieved to see her that he did not waste a moment on doubt.

"Quickly, before someone sees you," she hissed, and then to his great surprise she reached out and caught hold of his arm, and dragged him into the room.

The lights were off, and when Jean closed the door sharply behind him they were plunged into darkness, alone and standing so close, so unbelievably _close_, with no one there to see. He was standing with his back almost flush to the door, Jean just in front of him; there was one little window, and though the curtains were drawn some faint light carried in from the night beyond those walls, painted the shapes of bed and bureau in shadows, but Lucien paid no mind to the furnishings. He had eyes only for Jean.

Without her usual pumps she stood almost a head shorter than he, her chin lifted as she gazed up at him; how lovely she was, even now, in the darkness. She made to reach for the lightswitch, but as she moved so, too, did Lucien; he bowed his head towards her, and her cheek brushed against the bristle of his beard. A soft gasp escaped her, and Lucien's heart nearly stopped at the sound. Silence fell around them as they froze in place, a silence thick and full of promise, and Lucien reveled in it, in the knowledge that his presence affected her as deeply as hers did him.

"I've missed you, Jean," he breathed into the stillness. There were many other things he longed to say to her, so many other secrets he dearly wished to pour out at her feet, but he felt this was the best place to start. He had missed her, longed for her, for so many weeks, and as she stood before him now he felt the yearning in his chest only growing. For her part Jean seemed similarly dazed; she made no move to step away from him, their cheeks resting against one another, her breathing sharp and shallow, the softness of her brushing against his chest with every one of those staccato breaths. It was dark, and they were alone, and she smelled of flowers, and sleep, and _home. _

"I missed you, too, Lucien," she answered, her voice no more than a whisper. He took that as a very good sign indeed, for in his experience those encounters when she forgot herself entirely and called him by his name were always the sweetest.

* * *

She had meant to turn the lights on, to bathe them both in the gentle glow of the overhead lamp and take a step back from him, to sit down upon the end of her bed while he sat on the little bench in front of her dressing table so that they might speak to one another properly and from a respectable distance, but she had been waylaid by the very proximity of him, distracted by the smell of him floating on the air between them, by the warmth radiating off him in waves, by the tender sincerity of his voice and the rasp of his beard against her soft cheek. She had been overwhelmed and overcome, utterly and without recourse.

She had missed him; _oh_, but she had missed him, and now he was here, in her bedroom, late at night, as if the desperation of her wanting heart had conjured the vision of him just to soothe her. In the darkness she could not hide from her desires or her own fragile heart. In the darkness she could only feel, yearning for him washing over her in waves. _I have to protect him, _the thought came back to her, but now she did not want to save him with reminders of restraint and obligation; she wanted to shield him with her own body, wrap her arms around him and never let him go. The world outside her room was full of dangers, but here he was safe, and here she wanted to keep him.

Still they stood, frozen, only the trembling of their hands to give them away. He was a tall man, a broad man, but he stood with his head bowed as if in reverence; cheek-to-cheek they stood, hardly breathing, and Jean could not help but think of the first time he'd kissed her, how quickly they had lost all restraint, the way his powerful arms had held her, the way he made her feel when he pushed her back against the wall, delicate, fragile, free. There was passion lurking in both their hearts, waiting for the right moment to burst forth and burn them both to ashes, and she ought to know better than to give herself over to it, but _oh, _she wanted…

"I don't want to be apart from you, Jean," he breathed into the stillness. "You...you make everything better. You make _me_ better. You've made me see clearly."

Perhaps what he said was true; perhaps he could see more clearly, now. For her part Jean felt only confusion, standing so close to him; before him everything about her life had made sense, had been neat and orderly and perfectly logical, and then _he _had come barreling in and torn it all to pieces. She felt lost, felt as if she were spinning out in space and he was the only tether she could cling to. There was very little clarity for Jean, in that moment; she knew what she _ought _do, and she knew what she _wanted_ to do, and there in the darkness she could not say which choice was truly the right one.

She drew in a ragged breath, but no words came to her. It was all but impossible to think, surrounded by him as she was. As if he sensed this her king lifted his head and reached for her, cradled her cheek in his palm and tilted her chin so that she was once more looking up into his earnest blue eyes, so full of warmth, so full of longing for her.

"Tell me what you want, Jean," he said softly, heatedly. "Not what you can't do, not what's expected, not what other people will think. Tell me what you want. Let me give it to you."

He made it sound so easy. As if all she had to do was speak the truth, and then suddenly, somehow, he would make everything all right again, would with his power and his stubborn determination somehow erase every obstacle that stood between Jean and what she wanted most. In the darkness, it was hard not to believe him; he looked so sure, so certain of himself and his strength, so certain that whatever she asked of him he could give it to her. She wanted, very much, to believe him.

For all that she had tried to live the last twenty years of her life with grace and dignity according to the teachings of her church and the bounds of her society the truth was that in her heart Jean was still the same girl she had always been. Eager for freedom, for independence, determined to make her own way. Somewhere, deep inside her, was the same hungry farmgirl who had gone tumbling into the hayloft with Christopher, who would do it again in a heartbeat, even knowing now how her life would change. That girl had always been within her, and she always would be. Here, now, that girl believed Jean could have what she wanted, could take hold of the dearest longing of her heart, if only for a little while, and sort through the rest of the mess later. It was dark, and they were alone, and the door was locked behind him, and he was offering her everything.

And so she gathered her courage, took a deep, trembling breath, and looked into his eyes as she answered.

"You, Lucien," she said. "I want you."

He grinned at her in the darkness, teeth flashing white and dangerous, and then he was on her. The hand that cradled her cheek drew her to him while the other came to rest low on her back, and her arms wound around his neck while his lips crashed into hers, soft and yet demanding. Some small sound escaped her; a whimper, a sigh, it didn't matter. It was a sound of capitulation as she gave herself over utterly to him, melting in his arms and pressing him back against the door with the weight of her body. One of her hands drifted up to ruffle the hair at the nape of his neck and he smiled; she felt him smile, felt the way his lips moved against her own, and she could not help but smile back. The moment she did his tongue slipped past her lips and all her fears seemed to melt away. She wanted him, and he wanted her, and tomorrow could wait until tomorrow, for in this moment she intended only to love him. He had come to her at last, her wayward man, and she wanted only to hold him.

With each passing second the fire inside her seemed only to grow; the slip and slide of their tongues was echoed by the movement of their hips, searching, eager for purchase, for friction, wanting to learn just how well they fit together. His hand roved from her back down to the swell of her bum, his broad palm covering her, squeezing her, rocking her against him. She mewled, relieved to know that after all this time it still felt so good, so _right_ when he touched her, but he frowned and pulled away from her. For a moment she was afraid - had she not pleased him? Had he changed his mind already? Her hand tensed at the back of his neck, fingernails pressing against his skin, but then he kissed the corner of her mouth and reached for the tie of her robe.

"You are so beautiful, my darling," he told her. "But this robe is horrible."

She laughed into the darkness, a tinkling, merry sound; yes, her pink robe was hardly the height of elegance and sophistication, but it was warm and soft, and that was all she needed it to be. Just now, however, her body was electric with sensation and she had no need of its comfort; she only needed him. And so she did not protest when he unfastened the tie, when he slid his hands beneath the robe, over her shoulders, and carefully pulled it away. Beneath it she wore only a soft, pink satin nightdress, and she could tell at once the Lucien preferred this vision of her. The fabric was thin and clung to her slender frame, and she knew that when he looked at her in the dim light filtering in through the curtains he could see the buds of her nipple, the sharp points of her hips, the shadow at the apex of her thighs, and in his eyes she could see his hunger for her.

"Oh, _Jean," _he breathed, and then he reached for her, lifted her deftly with hands clenched hard around her bum. A breathless sound escaped her, not quite a squeal, as she wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in the crook of his neck, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. He had, with his hands and his lips and his earnest words turned her entire world upside down, and she found she liked it that way.

She kissed his neck, let her lips drag against the straining tendons there while one of his kneaded her bum, while the other slipped beneath her nightdress to trace patterns against the bare skin of her thigh.

"Well, then?" she asked him lightly, teeth catching against the tanned skin of his neck.

He needed no further prodding; he nudged her with his chin, and she lifted her head, and then his lips were on hers again, and his powerful legs were covering the short distance from the door to her bed. Gently, ever so gently he laid her down there, stretched himself out along the length of her body, holding himself up on his elbows while still his tongue surged into her mouth, while still her thighs clutched at his hips, trying to drag him into her. She could not remember when last she had been kissed with such desperate, reckless fervor, and she could not fathom how she could have gone so long without such passion to feed her weary soul.

A strange thing happened then, or strange to her mind at least. She had thought, given how intense things were between them already, given how she could feel his hardness straining for her through his trousers, that he would simply lift up her nightdress, and upon finding her knickerless would waste no time in freeing himself from his trousers before plunging into her. In her - admittedly somewhat limited - experience, a man so close to the edge would not afford himself the luxury of patience. And yet he did no such thing; he rolled to the side, and steadied himself on his knees, looking down on her in wonder for a moment.

"Lucien-" _what on earth are you doing, _she started to ask, but then he reached for the hem of her nightdress, his eyes on her face as if gauging her reaction. She swallowed somewhat thickly, and nodded once, and then he was carefully pulling it up and off her. Beneath it she was utterly, completely bare, and yet she did not worry, not even for a moment, what he might think when he saw her like that. Yes, it had been a very long time since last Jean had lain stretched out and naked for a man's inspection, and yes, before this night she had only ever gone to bed with Christopher, but she knew that Lucien wanted her, and she knew that she had kept herself fit, that despite being on the wrong side of forty she was still beautiful enough to tempt him. His kisses, his gentle hands had banished her every doubt, and so she only waited, breathless and eager to see what he might do.

"Oh, _Jean," _he breathed then. He stretched himself out along her side, his left hand reaching out to knead her breast while his lips settled on her collarbone. Delighted and relieved she hummed happily, and let her hand drift through his hair while he touched her. His kisses blazed a path of fire, over her shoulder, across the curve of her breast, until they wrapped around one dusky pink nipple, and she gasped into the darkness, arching her back and pressing more of herself into his clever mouth. _God forgive me, _she thought, _but that feels good. _He knew what he was doing, knew how to inflame her; his hand abandoned her breast and drifted over her belly, strong fingers pressing, kneading, and her legs fell open as she lay there next to him, her body asking for things her mind could not yet comprehend. That hand of his curled around her thigh while his teeth nipped lightly at her breast and her breathing was coming in sharp, desperate pants now.

"Tell me what you want, Jean." He whispered the words against her breast but there was no denying that it was a command. It was hard to ignore, that note of power, expectant demanding; he wanted her to say it, wanted her to tell him to take that hand and press it between her legs, wanted her to tell him that she was wet and ready for him and aching for his thick fingers to plunge into her. And though she wanted those things, though she had no doubt, now, that they would be positively electric together, the words stuck in her throat. That had never been Jean's way; she did not have to be explicit, to make her needs plain, to get what she wanted. She lifted her leg, pressed her foot flat on the mattress and held herself open for him, but she could not do this thing he'd asked of her. She turned her head into the pillows, not wanting him to see her face as she spoke.

"Please," she said desperately. "Please don't make me say it."

He kissed her breast once more and then lifted himself away from her, and Jean looked up at him sharply, suddenly terrified that he meant to leave her. If he needed to hear her say it, if he needed the words to convince himself that she truly wanted him, surely she could find the strength, if the alternative was him leaving her cold and lonely. But she needn't have worried, for he only settled himself in the cradle of her thighs, dropped gentle kisses along the slope of her belly, and down, and down, teeth nipping at her inner thighs. She threw her head back on the pillow, her body reeling as realization of what he meant to do dawned on her. One hand she fisted in the sheets and the other she tangled in his soft hair, and then he bowed his head, and blew her quiet life wide open.

With lips and tongue he traced the shape of her folds, his beard harsh and yet somehow delicious against the softest part of her. Her inner muscles clenched with need and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the beautiful sensation of it. He took his time, learning the shape of her, teasing her, not rushing to be inside her but seeming instead to savor this moment when everything between them was new and bright and joyful. Her hips pressed up hard against his face, desperate for something she could not ask for with words, but he understood her very well, and did not make her wait too long. When it seemed she might fly apart from the tension alone his lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves at her center and his thick finger slipped slowly, ever so slowly between her folds, down into her, curling up against the spot inside her that made her see stars. His tongue flicked at her deftly and that finger moved in time to the rhythm of his lips and all thought left her head.

"_Lucien, _oh, _oh, _please," she gasped desperately, and ground herself against his mouth, and a second finger joined the first. Those fingers, bigger and thicker than her own, deft and skilled at all manner of pursuits, threatened to undo her utterly. It seemed to last an eternity as she lay there beneath his ministrations, her body tight and pulsing with need, but Lucien knew _exactly _what he was doing and all too soon she was flying, crying out with joy as at last she reached her peak and tumbled from it, pulsing against his mouth.

At some point her right leg had draped over his shoulder, and she had tightened herself so fully around him he could not move from the vise grip of her thighs. She held him there, and he let her, let her wring every last ounce of pleasure from his lips and his fingers that she possibly could until finally she fell back against the mattress, boneless and shivering. With what little strength she had left she lifted her arms, begging him silently to return to her; he kissed her belly and then tore the shirt and vest from his back - wiping his chin discreetly on the vest, she saw - before he stretched himself out over her and kissed her soundly. Somehow this felt even better, his soft, supple skin against her own, her hands curling into the hard muscle of his back while she sucked the taste of herself off his tongue. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the fine spiderweb of scarring that scored his back but she did not question it, only flattened her palms against his pain and hooked her leg once more around his hip, cradling him in her own warmth and silently promising him that she would never let such agony befall him again. She would keep him _safe. _

His lips trailed away from her mouth and she gasped into the stillness as his kisses fell upon the curve of her neck. Knowing what it was he wanted and not caring in the slightest she tilted her head and let him draw her delicate skin between his teeth, let him hold her, mark her, claim her. Hiding the evidence of their passion would be a problem for the morning; in that moment, she only wanted more of him. Her heel drummed against the small of his back, caught against his belt; if the bare skin of their chests felt this delicious she thought that the slide of their bare legs would be even better, and so she freed her hands and slipped them between their hips, intent on the buckle of his belt.

"Jean-" Lucien started to say, but she only grinned, pressed her lips to his temple and deftly worked his belt free.

"I want to feel you," she answered breathlessly. He wanted the words, and while she had been unable to give them to him before, she found they tripped from her lips quite easily now. "I want you inside me."

He groaned, helpless in the face of such an earnest plea, and buried his face once more in her breast, his teeth scoring her skin while he lifted his hips and let her tug his trousers and pants away. In a rush he kicked them off, but before he could do anything more Jean reached for him, wrapped her hand around his shaft and shivered as she found him hard as marble and weeping with want of her. Every inch of his body was sleek and hard and powerful and this was no different; she felt another rush of wetness overtake her at the thought of holding him close within her. Her thigh had found its way around his hip once more, and when she shifted, desperate for some relief, the head of his cock caught against her inner thigh and painted her skin with the evidence of his need for her. He groaned and bucked into her hand, and she laughed; _God, _but nothing in her life had felt this good, not for a very, very long time. His love had left her reckless and free and joyful, and so she did not hesitate, then.

Taking him by surprise she used the hold of her body against him to turn them deftly, settling herself upon his thighs while his shaft nestled against her belly, her hand still working over him smoothly. She wanted to see him just like this, wanted to watch this titan of a man laid out flat on his back and helpless to resist the touch of her hands. The thick muscles of his neck strained with yearning and the hard plane of his chest was painted with sweat, his and hers and _theirs. _His broad hands settled on her hips, and still she ran her hand over his shaft, her thumb catching against the head of his cock, his head snapping back against the pillows in response and her name escaping his lips on a breathless groan.

She _liked _this, liked the feel of his need throbbing in her hand, liked the hard, hairy muscles of his thighs clenching beneath her, liked the way the vein leapt in his neck, crying out for her lips, liked knowing that she could undo him as utterly as he could her. But she had told him what she wanted, and she would not stop until she had achieved her goal, and so she moved, then, canted her hips and let his shaft settle into the valley of her thighs, rocked her own slickness against him and listened to the way they both gasped into the darkness.

"_Christ,_ you feel good," he groaned, his hands abandoning her hips and instead splaying across her back, holding her steady while still she slid against him, feeling every inch of his hardness dragging against her and shivering at the thought of taking him inside her own aching heat. He was so beautiful, and he was _hers, _if only for this moment, hers to command, to guide, to love. Though she intended to tease him a bit more, her hand still holding him pressed fast against her, it seemed her king could wait no longer.

From the moment they met she had known that he was strong, much stronger than she, but she had not understood just how powerful he was until _now, _until she could watch the flexing of his bare muscles beneath her, until suddenly he moved, sitting upright and bending his knees behind her back. There was no way for her to resist him, but then she did not want to; her hands wrapped around his head, her fingers catching against his hair as he crashed into her, kissing her urgently. Those powerful hands lifted her easily, and she kept her grip upon his cock, held him steady while he plunged her down atop him. Her lip was between his teeth but she could not help but throw her head back at the sensation, her lip throbbing and the breath escaping her soundlessly as just like that he filled her, completely, pushed so deep inside her that her muscles clenched around him and she nearly came undone right then and there. Surrounded by him she let go of any thought of her superiority; he had taken over her utterly. His thighs at her back, his lips on her neck, one hand on her breast and the other at her hip, his hardness throbbing inside her; everything was Lucien, in that moment, and all the world around him seemed to have vanished completely.

Desperate for more sensation she rocked against him, and he let her, bound her with arms and legs and simply watched while she took her pleasure against him. The hand that cradled her breast began to knead her, hard, and she whimpered at the sensation, already crumbling. Sensing how near she was to her own completion Lucien leaned in and captured the lobe of her ear with his teeth, tugging it, flicking at it with his tongue, and the sensation of his mouth and the wash of his warm breath against her ear sent her reeling, and in that moment she came undone, thrusting down hard against him and grinding messily into her release, whispering his name over and over again until the breath left her completely and she could do no more than collapse against his chest.

"You are so beautiful, my darling," Lucien told her then, his voice reverent and awed, his hand smoothing over her hair. In that moment she wanted very much to tell him that he was beautiful, too, but she could not find the breath to speak, and he was still achingly hard between her legs, and with each shiver of her sex around him she felt her arousal climbing to new heights. For a moment she rested, but the call of her body was too fervent to be ignored.

"Lucien, _please," _she managed to gasp, shifting her hips weakly. Her body was spent, her strength gone; though she wanted, very much, to lift herself up and ride him until he was as lost as she her legs were trembling, and would not hold her. But they were not done, and she did not want to stop; she only wanted _him._

"Yes," he answered, and then those powerful muscles were moving again, turning them both until it was Jean who lay stretched out before him. The marks of his loving were already making themselves known, the red burn of his beard across her breasts, the purpling bruise of his teeth at her neck and her nipple, the mark of his fingertips against her hip. For a moment he gazed at her in wonder, as if he were only just seeing her for the first time. But then she lifted her arms, weakly, and he fell upon her, kissing her messily while he surged within her and the sudden drive of his fullness into her over-sensitive flesh left her gasping against his lips. He was fierce, and hard, implacable and undeniable, falling into her again, and again, and again. The scrape of her nails scored his back, his sides, his hips, one hand even drifting down to clench against his bum, drawing him into her, begging him for more. The wet slap of their bodies and the chorus of his groans echoed in the small room; _please, don't let them hear, _she thought dimly, but then he kissed her again, and the thought vanished at once, replaced by _please, don't let him stop. _

_Yes, _and _please_, and _God,_ the words tripped from her trembling lips without her knowing. With one strong hand he caught the back of her thigh, pressed her leg back against her chest and held her open for him, changing the angle between them and pushing them both towards the precipice in a moment. Overwhelming, inescapable; with every powerful thrust of his hips he ground against her aching center and stars began to spark and flutter behind her eyes.

"Please," she gasped, "with me, please, Lucien, I want-"

"Yes," he answered, his lips finding her chin, his head hanging low over her as still he worked them both into a frenzy. "Want to feel you," he added, one hand reaching between them, fingertips vibrating madly against the bundle of nerves at her center.

That was all it took to send Jean shooting off into the stars. Her head snapped back and her body bowed hard against him, clutching him tight to her, and he cursed like a drowning man and ground into her release until he could hold himself back no more. Burying his face in the crook of her neck he cursed again and let himself go, thrusting madly, messily into the fluttering of her muscles until his own need crested and came pulsing out of him, white hot and wet and full of want. If she'd had sense enough to think she would have drawn her hips back and let him spill against her thigh, but there was no thought in her head at all, and she only held him to her, and kept him tight within her until at last he collapsed against her, gasping and relieved.

How long they stayed like that she could not say, but at last he sighed, kissed her shoulder and rolled away from her. Without his comforting weigh atop her, inside her, she shivered, suddenly cold, but he did not leave her for long. Those powerful arms took hold of her and rolled her into him, her head settling on his shoulder, her arm flung out over his belly, her legs wrapped around his thigh. Her eyes were too heavy for her to keep them open, sleep already steeling over her, and so when she heard him speak, his voice came to her as if from a dream.

"I love you, Jean," he said, and kissed the top of her head, and then they both drifted away, sated and happy.


	30. Chapter 30

_14 May 1959_

Jean woke first, slowly, humming to herself in the darkness as she stretched catlike and contented. Her body ached, but it was a good ache, a wholesome ache, the ache of muscles seldom used suddenly having discovered new purpose. The sun had not yet risen, and the little clock she kept by her bedside told her it had not yet gone 5:00. The castle was all in darkness, and so was the world beyond; the cooks would go shuffling downstairs soon, to start the bread and the tea and the coffee, frying up eggs and bacon for the hungry guardsman and landscapers and butlers and maids who would come wandering, yawning, into the kitchen sometime around 7:00. Soon, but not yet; she had a few minutes left to enjoy the stillness, the tenderness in her heart, the warmth of the man who slept peacefully beside her.

The regret would come, of that she was certain, but it had not come for her yet. For now, for this moment, she was still happy, and she clung to that happiness as a child would a favorite toy.

Lucien slept on beside her, snoring ever so lightly, and she grinned at the sound of it, delighted by this new piece of intimate knowledge, one more little detail she had learned about her king, one more little secret she could carry in her heart. He was lying on his back in almost exactly the same position he'd been in when they'd fallen asleep the night before; his left arm was flung out across the empty expanse of mattress but his right had drifted at some point in the night, freed itself from her weight and shifted between their bodies. Jean herself lay on her tummy, pressed hard to his side, their legs still tangled beneath the duvet, her arm across his belly. Carefully she lifted her head, rested her head against his shoulder and looked at his face, soft and without care as he slept.

And what a dear face it was; those warm blue eyes were closed now, but she remembered the expression of hunger in them when he took her the night before, and she shivered. His beard needing seeing to, but it was still rather neat, outlining his square jaw and full lips just so. Those lips had touched every inch of her, shocked her out of her quiet life and propelled her out into the stars, and they had done it tenderly, joyfully. _Oh, _but he had been tender, and gentle, full of a sort of wonder as he touched her, and it was that reverence that reassured her, more than most anything else, that while their coming together had been a mistake it was a choice they had both made for the right reasons. He was there in her bed because he wanted to be there, with _her_, not because he was just searching for the nearest warm body. If all he'd needed was a safe place to slake his lust she was certain his touch would not have been half so tender, and she took some solace from that certainty.

In the stillness she reached out, brushed the swell of his full bottom lip with the pad of her thumb and watched as the smallest of smiles tugged at his mouth before he turned his head, still sleeping peacefully. She had not woken him but even in his dreams he had smiled to feel her touch, and she smiled, too, utterly delighted by him. Beneath her his body was strong and hard and powerful but it was soft, too, relaxed and content, there with her.

Though she wanted, very much, to keep him with her, to spend the morning lazing around in bed, perhaps to rouse him with a gentle touch of her own and let him roll her beneath him once more she knew that she was running out of time. He would need to leave her, and soon, for the sake of both their reputations, for the security of the realm and Jean's continued employment in the castle. There was not time for everything she wanted to do, everything she wanted to say, but there was time enough to wake him gently, and so she raised herself up, slid along the length of his body until her head was resting on the same pillow as his own.

Time and exertion had done their work and his normally neat hair had at last escaped its restraints, and it lay curly and soft and blonde like a halo around his dear face. Smiling to herself Jean reached out and smoothed her hand across that hair, running her fingers through the strands, stroking him lazily, as if he were hers to love and cherish, as if he belonged to her. Her fingers drifted down to rub against his scalp, her eyes on his face as she watched him slowly come awake beneath her. His lips twitched, just a little, and his eyelashes fluttered, and then he sighed and came back to her, her beautiful, impossible man.

"Good morning, my darling," he said in a deep rumbling voice, scratchy with sleep. He reached out and caught her hand, drew it to his lips and pressed a kiss into the soft skin of her palm.

_Oh, _how wonderful it was to wake beside him, to hear him call her _darling, _to feel safe and treasured in the warmth and quiet of her bed on a still morning. Relief and joy and contentment and _love; _Jean felt it all, in that moment, felt herself borne aloft on a radiant sea of delight. She let her head drop to rest against his shoulder, his beard brushing her skin as he turned and dropped another kiss against her forehead.

"Good morning, Lucien," she whispered.

Though his waking had been slow he gathered the strength to move then, wrapping her in his arms and drawing her hard against him, and she let him, her arms winding around him and her lips pressing against the column of his throat. He smelled of sweat and _her_ in the most intoxicating way, and she breathed him in, luxuriating in the moment for as long as she could. Jean had an internal clock that ticked as precisely as the little one that sat at her bedside, and she knew the minutes were rushing by, that one or another of them would have to find the strength to separate them and push them out into the world, but she was finding it difficult to even imagine extricating herself from the safe haven of his arms.

"I'm afraid I've put you in a terrible position, Jean," he said slowly.

She lifted her chin at the same moment he lowered his own, and they only narrowly avoided cracking their heads together. Smiling softly they looked at one another, and she thought then how much she still had to learn about this man. Before this moment she had thought him reckless and a bit self-centered, too preoccupied with himself and his own worries to spare much thought for other people. After all, she had told him outright that anything more than friendship between them would be improper, and since that conversation he had kissed her on two separate occasions and come to her room in the still of the night and made love to her so passionately that just the thought of it made her belly clench with need. Until this moment she had thought he must have forgotten that conversation entirely, or at least decided to disregard her warnings, but now here he was, acknowledging without prompting that he remembered her concerns very well, and seeming somehow contrite at having overstepped the lines she had tried to draw between them.

"Yes," she answered him truthfully. "You have. But I played my part, too, Lucien."

In the darkness he grinned, and she loved him for it. "Quite well, as I recall."

"Silly boy," she chided him, kissing his chin to take some of the sting out of her words. He was right, however much she might wish to ignore it; he _had_ put her in a terrible position. Having had a taste of him she could not imagine going on without him, and yet she knew that was exactly what she must do. But how? She could not deny, now, that she loved him, could not pretend as if he felt nothing at all for her, but their positions had not changed. Their love, no matter how sweet, could not be allowed to flourish.

"Nothing's changed," she slowly, though she knew that wasn't entirely true; they were lying naked in her bed, and that had changed _everything. _"I can't be your mistress, Lucien. I...I couldn't bear it. This was...you were…" she bit her lip, trying to find the right word, "_wonderful,_ but despite evidence to the contrary I'm really not that sort of woman."

He had the good grace not to tease her; in fact, his expression was quite serious as he considered her words.

"Be my wife, then," he said.

That was exactly what she'd been hoping he wouldn't say.

"Oh, Lucien," she sighed, her palm ghosting over the heavy muscle of his bicep, his shoulder, and back again. "You can't marry your housekeeper. You've only been king for a few months. You've only known me for a few months. If you were to do that, you'd look like...people would think you were...oh, they'd lose all faith in you." _They'd think you were a cad, they'd think I'd taken advantage of you, I'd never be able to look Mattie in the eye again, they'd say such horrible things about both of us, your cousins would go mad -_

"My father married a commoner," he said stubbornly. "The people came to her accept her, in time. They came to love her."

"Your mother was a beautiful Parisian artist from a wealthy family. She wasn't your father's housekeeper. I know you know it isn't the same, Lucien, please-"

But then, to horror, her words were cut short by a sharp knock on the door. For a moment they only looked at one another, eyes wide and fearful; this was exactly the sort of thing Jean had been dreading. No one came looking for her in the early hours of the morning, not ever. She could not even recall when last anyone had visited her room - if someone needed her they usually found her out in the castle during the daylight hours. That someone should come knocking now, when she had her king naked in her bed, seemed to be too great a coincidence. The two events had to be connected, and she knew that could only spell disaster for her.

Lucien started to rise but she pushed him back down at once, shooting him a baleful look, and then rushed out of bed and into her pink robe. Her hair was a mess and there was a magnificent lovebite blooming across her throat the robe did not hide, but she supposed it would have to do. Whoever was on the other side of the door knocked again, almost urgently.

Holding her breath and cursing cruel fate Jean opened the door a crack, trying to shield the room from view with her own body, wondering what sort of nightmare waited for her on the other side of the door.

It was Matthew, leaning heavily on his cane and frowning.

"Sorry to wake you, Jean," he said quietly.

"It's all right," she answered, her voice just as soft as his own had been. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes." His frown deepened, if such a thing were possible. "The king has an early meeting with the PM and Peter went to wake him, but he wasn't in his room. I hate to ask you, this Jean, but-"

"He's here, Matthew." Such simple words they were, and yet they contained within them her own destruction. Matthew did not flinch, or betray any evidence of surprise; why should he, she thought, when after all he had stood guard outside the glasshouse that night at the country manor, that night when Jean had danced with her king beneath the stars, when he had kissed her amongst the blooms. The king and Matthew were quite close and likely talked about all manner of things; no doubt she had been a subject of conversation at least once. But Matthew was an old friend, and there was no judgment in his gaze as he looked at her.

Lucien must have heard their quiet conversation for he began to shuffle around behind her. For a moment Jean simply stood, frozen, listening to the sound of him stuffing himself into his trousers, staring down at her toes and wishing the ground would simply swallow her up. The morning had been going so well, but now reality had come crashing in on her, and her joy had fled.

Once he was dressed Lucien came to the doorway; he kissed her cheek and then stepped quickly out into the corridor. No one else had passed by her room from the moment of Matthew's arrival, and no one came walking by now, and if anyone did they would only see the king and his head guardsman in quiet conversation with the housekeeper. The scene had shifted from one of damning intimacy to one of dull routine, just like that.

"Jean, I-" Lucien started to say, but Jean shook her head.

"You have things to do, Your Majesty," she said, "and so do I. By your leave."

She did not wait for his answer, simply closed the door in his face and then collapsed against it, her forehead pressed to the door as tears began to course silently down her cheeks.


	31. Chapter 31

_14 May 1959_

"Not a bloody word," Lucien grumbled as together he and Matthew turned and made their way back towards the stairs. The morning had started so beautifully, so wonderfully, full of tenderness and potential the likes of which Lucien had never even dreamed of experiencing, and though he understood that Matthew had likely done him a kindness by removing him from Jean's room before they were caught by someone less understanding he could not thank him for it. There was so much left to say, but Jean had closed the door smartly and in the soft snick of the lock Lucien fancied he could hear a far off rumble of thunder, a portent of troubles to come. Matthew had arrived before Lucien had the chance to explain himself to Jean fully, and for now his arguments would go unheard. The lost time galled him; Jean had clearly been distressed by the interruption and she had shut the door so quickly, as if she could not be rid of him fast enough. No doubt her regrets and her doubts would fester throughout the day, and Lucien would be unable to soothe her until much later - if she had not gone off him completely by then.

"I didn't say anything," Matthew answered, his voice as gruff as Lucien's had been.

"You didn't need to." No, Matthew's expression had spoken volumes. The moment the door closed he'd turned to Lucien frowning as if to say _now what have you gone and done this time? _After all, it had not been so very long since Matthew had told him plainly _if you hurt her, king or not I'll break your bloody kneecaps. _And yet Lucien had not heeded his old friend's advice, and now everything seemed to be in tatters.

_I can salvage this,_ he tried to tell himself as they walked along. _I can. _

After all, he was under orders - in a manner of speaking - to marry, and Jean was a fine woman, a woman who must have felt _something _for him, or else she would not have been so conflicted. He had to marry, he loved her, she seemed to care for him; why then should they not wed? The excuses Jean had offered him were thin and feeble, and he rather thought that if he applied himself to the task he could easily set all her fears to rest. It was Jean he wanted, he knew that now, and he would gladly do battle with her excuses and Sir Patrick and anyone else had to, just to have her.

For he knew, now, what they were together, knew how happy he could make her, how utterly she could delight him. The few moments they had spent together blissful and at peace in the predawn darkness had shown him that. And such happiness was worth fighting for.

Even if Matthew did not approve. Likely he thought, as Jean did, that a relationship between the king and his housekeeper could never be. Likely having heard the stories of Lucien's misspent youth he mistrusted his king's intentions as regarded this lady whom Matthew held in such high esteem. Likely everyone in the castle would feel much the same, if and when the truth came out. But people do love their stories, Lucien thought, and perhaps in time they would come to love this one, too, would eventually come to see the beauty in it and be glad to know that Jean and Lucien had found such happiness together.

_We just have to go about it the right way, _he thought. He did not yet know what the right way might be, but he was determined to sort it out.

* * *

Sir Patrick had arranged a meeting at 7:00 that morning, and Lucien could have kicked him for it. They could have talked as easily at noon, or even the following day, but Sir Patrick had wanted to see him first thing, and it was his eagerness that had torn Lucien from Jean's bed, sent him upstairs for a bath and a shave and a bit of breakfast before Peter helped him to dress and sent him marching back down the stairs again.

And despite Lucien's haste Sir Patrick arrived in the counsel room before he did. He rose to his feet and bobbed his head in a show of reverence, waiting until his king had been seated and gestured for him to do the same before resuming his seat.

"How was your trip, Your Majesty?" Patrick asked him once they were settled.

"It was wonderful," Lucien said truthfully. "Li is happy and well."

"But staying in China?"

It was obvious what Sir Patrick was doing, what he wanted to know. The Prime Minister was not concerned with the well-being of Lucien's family for altruistic reasons; he wanted a robust royal family and an ironclad succession, and while he would couch his inquiries in the language of polite conversation the intent remained the same. _Do we have an heir? And if we don't, what the bloody hell are you going to do about it? _Patrick had not said it in so many words but Lucien rather had the feeling that the Prime Minister had only come around to supporting the king's trip to China because he believed it would be the most expedient way to bring the heir to the throne back home. If he believed that, he had been sorely mistaken.

"Yes," Lucien said. "She's married, and expecting a child. She's never set foot in this country, and she can't uproot her family now."

"Surely _you're _her family as well, Your Majesty."

"She hadn't seen me since 1941, Patrick. Her life is in China."

"She told you she intends to abdicate her birthright, then?" Patrick asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his belly. He was frowning; everyone seemed to be frowning at Lucien this morning.

But his question was an interesting one, for as Lucien considered it he realized that he did not actually know the answer.

"Not in so many words," he said carefully. "She told me she has no plans to come here. But she's also nearly five months pregnant, and no doubt the thought of moving to a new place and having a new child at the same time is daunting. It's possible in time she might change her mind. We didn't actually discuss her long term plans." _We never actually discussed the fact that she's a princess, _he thought. Their discussions had centered on themselves, everything that had transpired in the time they'd been apart. Lucien had been curious as to what sort of education Li had received, what sort of work her husband did, what life was like for her in that distant corner of the world. The line of succession had not been particularly high on his list of concerns. But of course she was a princess, his darling Li, and her child would be next in the line after her. Though there were no guarantees Lucien knew he could very well live another twenty, twenty-five years - thirty seemed to be pushing it, he thought, given his proclivity for strong drink - and by that time her child would be grown. Maybe it wouldn't matter, in the end, if Li wanted to assume the role she'd been born into. Maybe his grandchild would be happy to take up the crown.

Now _that _was an interesting thought.

Patrick sighed. "So far we've managed to keep the fact of her existence a secret, Your Majesty, but people will want to know where you went and why you were gone for so long. We believe that someone in the castle is passing information along to your cousins. If they learn about her, who she is, they might decide to target her."

"Then we'll have to send her protection," Lucien said at once. The thought had not occurred to him before, but now it left him terrified. He could not bear it, he thought, if after all this time his own recklessness had placed Li in danger, if her quiet, happy life were to be shattered on account of her connection to him. It was the most horrible thing he could imagine.

"If we send a contingent of soldiers to Shanghai that threat will go from possible to imminent. It would paint a target on her back."

"We can't leave her out there alone," Lucien fired back, incensed at the very idea. If she were in danger then she ought to be protected, but here Patrick sat, making threats and doing nothing to assuage Lucien's fears.

"I'll speak to Bill. Perhaps a few highly trained intelligence officers could bleed into the local community, and look after her without raising suspicions. But you must understand, Your Majesty, the safest place for her is here, in the castle, where we can look after her. You might think about telling her that."

"I will not use threats and intimidation to bring my daughter home just to make you happy," Lucien told him fiercely. Li deserved better than that, he thought. _She deserves better than me. _

"Very well, Your Majesty. Given the situation, however, I'm afraid it's time for you to start thinking about our arrangement. If the princess does not wish to come home, then you are still without an heir, at least until such time as her child comes of age. We cannot count on your grandchild assuming the throne; China is a dangerous place just now, and the child may not want the crown any more than your daughter does. The safest thing for Li and for the future of this kingdom would be for you to marry and produce a second heir as soon as possible. Then Li could remain in China unmolested, and the line of succession would remain intact."

_Arrogant bastard, _Lucien thought. He knew he wasn't being entirely fair on Sir Patrick; the man did have the best interest of the realm at heart, and Lucien had given his word. He had devoted rather a lot of time recently to thoughts of matrimony, but somehow he did not think that Sir Patrick would be entirely happy with his choice, and he could not even make such a suggestion until he'd had another chance to speak to Jean. After all, he had no intention of strong-arming Jean - or any woman - into a marriage she did not want.

"I've only just come back," he said. "Give me a month, and we'll revisit this conversation again then."

"Your Majesty-"

"One month, Patrick, that's all I ask. I promise you, one way or another, I will keep my end of the bargain. I just need a little more time."

It seemed the phrase _one way or another_ had piqued Sir Patrick's interest; the man eyed him thoughtfully, the faintest hint of a smug smile playing around the corner of his mouth. Perhaps Sir Patrick thought that his attempts at matchmaking had been successful, and the King was sweet on Lady Ann.

_If he believes that, he's a fool, _Lucien thought grimly.

"Very well, Your Majesty," Patrick said. "We'll discuss the matter again in a month."

* * *

"Is everything all right, Jean?" Mattie asked.

The sound of the girl's voice startled her and Jean gave a little jump at the question, nearly dropping her teacup in the process.

She had been sitting in an out-of-the-way corner of the kitchen, sipping her tea and nibbling dispiritedly at a plate of eggs and bacon while the kitchen bustled around her. The place was a hive of activity in the mornings, and today was no different, but Jean had no interest in speaking to anyone, and until now everyone had given her a wide berth. Not Mattie, though; they were friends after a fashion, and no doubt the young nurse had seen Jean's distress written all over her face.

"Oh, I'm fine, Mattie. I think I may be coming down with a cold."

It was a bold-faced lie, and Jean would repent for it later, but in the moment there was nothing else she could say. Physically Jean felt rather wonderful, strong and full of life; if her heart had been lighter she was sure she would have been positively glowing. But deep within her heart, she felt as if she were breaking in half.

She had not wept for very long after Lucien left her that morning; after all, there was work to be getting on with. She'd slipped into her usual navy dress, though she had stared for a moment in despair at the heavy mark Lucien's lips had left on the side of her neck. Makeup had not been sufficient to cover it, but the tears had left her sniffling and her eyes were a bit puffy, so she'd wrapped herself in her white shawl and resolved to tell anyone who asked that she was feeling a bit under the weather.

But she should have known that she would not fool Mattie; the girl was a nurse, after all.

"You don't look sick," Mattie said quietly. "You look sad."

Jean had no response for that at all; she _was _sad. Everything was muddled, her relief at Lucien's return, the joy that had filled her when he touched her, the devastation that had begun to creep in as she realized that no matter how badly she wanted him the king could never truly be hers.

_Be my wife, then_, he'd said, as if it were that simple, as if such a thing could ever be. There was nothing in the world Jean wanted more than to be his _wife,_ but in order to be his wife she would have to be his queen, too, and that thought did not sit easily with her. Kings did not marry widowed housekeepers; a farmgirl who'd gotten married with a baby already in her belly could not ever be a queen. Life was not a fairytale, and Jean knew that better than most. Better than Lucien, certainly.

_I will have to leave, _she thought sadly. There was no other way; she wanted Lucien too much, and she had proven herself unable to resist him. Now that he'd gotten this idea in his head she knew he would not easily forget it, and having to push him aside, having to live in the same place with him, having to clean his rooms, knowing how wonderful it was to be held by him and yet never experiencing that joy again; it would be unbearable. It would be the worst sort of torture. The only way to spare them both the heartbreak would be to remove herself from his sight.

But where then could she go? The castle had been her home for fifteen years. Her boys were grown, and did not need her underfoot. She had a little money saved up but she was too young yet to stop working altogether, and the thought of leaving the comfort and security of her home to start over somewhere else was galling.

_It could be nice, though, _she tried to tell herself. _I could go to a little village, and work at a florist's or a cafe. I could rent a little cottage, and grow flowers in my own garden again. _

"Jean?" Mattie was looking at her with grave concern.

"I'll be all right, Mattie," she said, reaching out to pat the girl's hand gently. "I always am."


	32. Chapter 32

_14 May 1959_

Once more Lucien had chosen to lie in wait for Jean, hiding out in his suite and counting down the minutes until she would come to tidy the rooms, the way she did most every afternoon. He could have chosen a different approach, could have gone to the kitchen at suppertime in search of her or waited for her on the battlements once darkness fell, or even been so bold as to come knocking on her door in the still of the night once more, but he did not want to wait, did not want to leave the strangeness of the morning to fester all day long. Likewise he was certain Jean would not want to risk anyone else overhearing their conversation, and there was no place safer, he thought, than his own suite of rooms.

The clock ticked past 2:00, and Lucien began to grow nervous; what if she did not come at all? What if she were truly cross with him, what if the unpleasant way their beautiful night together had ended had turned her heart against any future liaison? It didn't bear thinking about; having had a taste of her he found himself ravenous for more, for all of her, eager and hopeful when he cast his thoughts to the future. Their conversation just before Matthew arrived that morning gave him cause for concern, however, for while his thoughts had been pleasant and full of love it seemed that Jean remained, as ever, pragmatic and convinced that they could never be. Lucien wanted, very much, to change her mind, and he hoped that this afternoon he might be allowed the time he had been denied in the morning, time enough to speak to her honestly, openly, and to woo her in his own way.

The door opened at quarter past and he breathed a sigh of relief, downing the last of his whiskey in one gulp before rising from the chair in his office and making his way out into the sitting room.

"Jean?" he called, not seeing her in the sitting room, and then he heard a soft gasp coming from his bedroom.

"Here," she answered, that one word too brief to allow him any sense of what she was thinking, what she was feeling now that she knew he was there, waiting for her.

As quick as he could he ducked into the bedroom, and there he found her, his beautiful love, her arms full of bedsheets and a look of terror on her face. When she saw him she bowed her head, bent her knees in a vague attempt at a curtsy.

"Your Majesty," she said, her voice strained and distant, her eyes not meeting his gaze.

This was exactly what he'd been afraid of; she must have decided, then, that any further contact between them must be restrained and professional, but that was the last thing Lucien wanted. She had such a beautiful smile, his Jean, and such a gentle laugh, and he valued her keen insight more than words could say. She was everything to him, and he could not bear to be kept apart from her.

"Oh, Jean," he sighed, crossing the room to stand before her at once. Carefully he reached out and tried to take her burden from her, but Jean clung to the discarded bedclothes, still refusing to meet his gaze.

"I have work to do," she said, and Lucien hated it, hated how sad she seemed, how small she looked, hated that reminder of their separate roles within the castle. Jean deserved better, he thought, than to believe herself no more than a servant.

"Please," he said, and this time when he reached for the sheets he let his palms brush over her hands. The contact startled her, and Lucien seized upon his momentary advantage, tugging her burden away and casting it to the side. "Can we talk, Jean?"

At last she looked at him, but her eyes were dark and troubled. Would she deny him? He wondered. Could she? Could her heart have changed course so dramatically in just a few hours? He had woken to the soft touch of her fingers drifting through his hair, the sweet taste of her kisses, the warmth of her naked skin against his own, but now she looked at him as if he were a stranger, and an unwelcome one at that.

"I suppose we must," she sighed.

"Please," he said, gesturing towards the naked bed, intending for them to sit there together and spell out their troubles plainly, but Jean shook her head, aghast at the very idea.

"The sitting room, please," she told him.

"Very well," he answered, and together they left the bedroom and all its insinuation behind them, retreating instead to the sun-drenched opulence of the sitting room. Jean chose the armchair for herself, and the significance of that was not lost on Lucien; she had chosen to sit where he could not join her, chosen to keep this distance between them. Fear began to gnaw at Lucien's heart; he had been so certain, before now, that he could win her over, but if she remained determined not to give in to his advances then all his hopes were dashed. How terrible it would be, he thought, to carry on in this place without her gentle kindness to guide him; how much it would wound him, to see her and not be allowed to touch her, to share the closeness they had cultivated over the last seven months.

As Lucien settled himself onto the sofa Jean cleared her throat, and then began to speak.

"You should know I've made up my mind, Your Majesty," she said.

"Have you?" he asked, rubbing his palms over his thighs, his thoughts awhirl with questions. _Made up her mind about what? _He wondered. Whatever decision she had come to, on whatever matter it might be, she did not seem to be particularly happy with it, and he tried to tell himself that surely that meant she must care for him, must hate this manufactured civility as much as did he.

"I'm leaving," she said simply. "I'll resign officially tomorrow but-"

"You can't, Jean," he gasped, and, suddenly terrified, he leaned forward, towards her, one of his hands reaching out as if to touch her, but she was too far away for him to reach.

"Is that an order, Your Majesty?" she asked him coolly, one delicate eyebrow arching as if in accusation, and he realized at once the gravity of his error. His position was one of power, and to wield that power over her, to force her hand in anyway, would be the height of cruelty. Though Lucien himself often forgot this imbalance between them, Jean never seemed to.

"No, of course not," he corrected himself quickly. "You're free to do as you like. I just...please, Jean, don't be hasty."

"Hasty?" she repeated incredulously. "Have you forgotten already? You're the one who came to my door last night, you're the one who asked me to…" her voice faded out, and the anger that had flashed in her eyes was replaced at once by doubt as her lips pressed together and her brow furrowed. "Oh," she said. "I've only just realized. You didn't mean it all, did you?"

Many years before when Lucien left England behind to sail to Singapore, there had been a terrible night when the ship was beset by a storm. The deck had pitched and rolled beneath his feet, and the short trip from his bunk to the head had been fraught with peril. In the darkness he'd stumbled, lost his footing and gone careening to the floor, and the wild swaying of the ship had made it almost impossible to rise. He'd eventually scrambled up, using the bulkhead to brace himself, but his stomach had roiled and he'd closed his eyes against the dizzying sensation. He'd never felt its like before, but he felt it now, felt himself lost and tossed about by the sudden change in her and his own confusion.

"Of course I meant it," he said. "I love you, Jean, and I want to marry you."

"You can't possibly-"

"Are you quite certain about that, my darling? I'm the king, aren't I? Who is to say what I can and cannot do?" It was Jean who had taught him that, reminded him that he answered to no one, but it looked to him as if she was regretting that conversation just now.

She was clearly growing frustrated with him. "It would be a disaster," she said firmly. "I'm not...I can't...women like me don't marry men like you, Lucien." She had forgotten herself, and called him by his name; surely, he thought, if she meant to part from him she would not have allowed the word to pass her lips. Surely he had cause to hope, if she could still call him by his name.

"There are no women like you, my darling." He smiled as he said it, for even now when they were arguing, when his very heart was on the line, he was overcome by the thought of how wonderful she was, how he loved her.

"Lucien-"

"Did you not enjoy it, then?" he asked pointedly. Though he supposed there was a small chance he was wrong on that score he rather thought she had enjoyed the time she'd spent in his arms immensely. The memory of her stifled cries, her breathless voice whispering _I want you inside me _made him believe that she had wanted him, needed him, loved him as much as he did her. Jean's cheeks flushed scarlet at his most improper question, and he held his breath, hoping.

"That's hardly-" she began to protest meekly, but he cut her off at once.

"Do you really not care for me at all?"

Her eyes flashed. "Do you think I would have opened my door to you last night if I didn't?" It was almost a challenge, the way she threw the words at him, and Lucien grinned, elated.

"Well, then," he said, somewhat smugly. "I love you, Jean, and you care for me, and we are evidently quite...compatible, and I see no reason why, then, as two grown people who care for one another, we can't be quite happy together."

"Why are you so determined that you know best?" she sighed, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest, exasperated but unable to fault his logic.

"You like that about me," he told her. "You find me charming."

"Insufferable, more like," Jean grumbled, but there was the faintest hint of a smile playing around the corner of her mouth.

Encouraged Lucien rose from the sofa then, and knelt down beside her, taking one of her hands in both of his own, gazing up into her beautiful face. Her full lips parted as if she were preparing herself to admonish him, and so Lucien spoke quickly, wanting only to tell her the truth that was in his heart.

"If you really believe that there is no way we could be happy together, Jean, then I will defer to you. I will not force myself where I'm not wanted. But I love you, my darling, and I think we both deserve the chance to be happy. I want to make you happy, more than anything. You don't have to make any decisions just now. It's all right if you aren't ready. But please, _please, _if there is any hope, any chance at all, that you might want to be my wife, then give us this chance. Take all the time you need, but please don't leave me."

"Time won't change who we are, Lucien," she told him sadly, but she did not pull her hand away from him.

"No," he agreed. "But in time you may come to see, as I do, that every obstacle between us can be overcome. I want us to sort this out, together. I want you, Jean, and no one else."

"You really believe it's that simple, don't you?" her voice was soft, and as she spoke she reached out, ran her palm over his hair, her touch a benediction to his weary soul.

"I do," he answered, and in those words he made a silent vow, a promise to cherish her, to love her, to help her in all things, to make her as happy as she made him. Her hand drifted down to press against his cheek, and so he turned his head, and kissed her palm. Beneath him Jean sighed, and he could almost feel her heart rising victorious over the desperate objections of her rational mind.

"All right," she said quietly. "All right. I won't leave. I can't promise you more than that, not now."

"That's all I'm asking for," he told her earnestly.

And then she smiled at him, albeit a bit tremulously. "What have you done to me, Lucien?" she asked him, but he rather thought she did not expect an answer, for she leaned in then, and kissed him sweetly. It was a brief kiss, but one full of hope, and when it ended she did not pull away from him entirely, only rested her forehead against his own.

"My impossible man," she said, and kissed him again before pushing him gently away.

Lucien could not stop grinning, for Jean had promised not to leave him, had in her own way claimed him for her own, and there was nothing he wanted more. He had time, now, time to help her see that the only thing that mattered was the love they'd cultivated between them, that their love could be strong enough to see them through whatever lay ahead.

"Now," she said, rising from the chair and brushing her skirt down fussily. "I have work to do." The words stung less, this time, than they had done before, for she was smiling as she said them.

"Let me help you," he suggested.

Jean raised a single eyebrow at him, incredulous, but Lucien leaned in, and kissed the tip of her nose.

"I was a soldier, Mrs. Beazley," he reminded her winsomely. "I do know how to make a bed."

"We'll see about that," she answered primly, and he laughed, and together they went back to the bedroom, both of their hearts lighter now than they had been before. _We'll find a way, _he told himself. _We must. We will. _


	33. Chapter 33

_24 May 1959_

It was a Sunday evening, and the weather was fine for the end of spring; Jean was comfortable enough with her white shawl around her shoulders. There was no universal day of rest for the servants who kept the castle pristine and operational, but there was a rota of sorts, and as one of the devout Jean had elected to take Sundays for herself. Sundays were quiet, and beautiful, a day of contemplation, a day of peace when Jean could spend her time however she chose. This particular Sunday had been fine in that regard; she'd spent the morning in the little chapel on the castle grounds, gathered together with what remained of the faithful, and she'd spent the afternoon in the garden, reading a book beneath a cheery sun. Now that night had fallen she had made her way, as was her habit, to the battlements, to gaze out at the stars and order her thoughts for the week ahead.

This little ritual had begun when Jean first arrived at the castle some sixteen years before, and it had sustained her through countless triumphs and heartbreaks down though the years. There was little for a housekeeper to do after hours, and though the younger servants gathered in one another's quarters for a nightcap or a game of cards Jean had never dared insert herself there. At first it was because she had children to look after - she was hardly the only servant who'd come to this place with little ones, though these days there were hardly any children about at all - and by the time the boys had grown up and gone out into the world she'd been elevated to a management position, and though she'd never pressed the issue she imagined that her coworkers would not appreciate socializing with her outside of their work. Not that she minded, really; Jean enjoyed the company of her friends but solitude had its benefits as well, and she was content.

It was the king - the old king - who'd told her that no quarter of the castle was forbidden to her, and with his permission she had explored the whole place, every nook and cranny, every crumbling wall and dusty room. The gardens she liked best, but the rooftop was a close second. When she made her way up the battlements in the evening, breathing the fresh air, high above and far removed from the bustle of the city, she could gaze up at the sky, and imagine the stars she could not see, the stars that had been her constant companions in childhood, though now they were hidden by the shine of the castle lights. Whether she could see them or not it made no matter; the stars remained unchanging, and that comforted her somewhat, when her own life had been full of so many sudden disturbances.

King Lucien was one such disturbance, and the focus of her meandering thoughts this evening. Though she had resolved herself to leave he had with gentle words and the devil's own charm coaxed her into staying, and she could not say for certain yet whether that choice had been the right one. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that if they approached the matter in the right way, if they were circumspect and thoughtful, perhaps in time they might find their way together. After all, the king's own mother had been a commoner, as Lucien himself had reminded Jean. Their circumstances were different now, of course, but perhaps…

_Oh, Lucien, _Jean thought, leaning against the low stone wall. Their circumstances were very different indeed. Perhaps if the subject were broached in the right way Jean's closest acquaintances would not be bothered; Matthew knew already that something was brewing between them, and Mattie would probably think it wonderfully romantic, and Alice would not bat an eye. Danny and Charlie wouldn't feel strongly one way or another; they were young men, and not over-concerned with status or propriety. The other servants, though, the maids and the cooks and the butlers - what would they say? What would happen, should the king's own servants grow unruly and petulant over the elevation of one of their own?

_They might be happy for me,_ Jean tried to tell herself. But that only brought to mind thoughts of her sister, and the people she had known before she'd come to this place. Would those old friends, those far-flung family members, be happy for her? Or would they be quick to speak to the newspapermen who would swarm the village of her birth looking for stories of their queen-to-be? The stories those people could tell...a shiver ran down Jean's spine at the very thought. There had not been much fuss about it, at the time of her marriage to Christopher, but surely every woman in the village had known that her belly had grown too big too quickly, that her first pregnancy could hardly have been a wedding night surprise. But she'd lost that child, and it had all happened so long ago; perhaps, she told herself, no one would remember at all.

Perhaps, but she could not say for certain. She would have to tell Lucien, she knew, would have to warn him what sort of secrets might come to light, should they move forward with this scheme of his. But Jean had not yet accepted his proposal, and so she had not yet chosen to divulge the darkness that lay hidden in her past. It had not even been a year since she'd met him, this beautiful, impossible man who had bowled her over so completely, and Jean was a practical woman at heart. Marriage was not to be entered into lightly, and she was in no particular rush to sign her life away once more. To be subsumed by him, consumed by the role that would be thrust upon her should she take his hand, was a terrifying prospect.

Being queen would not be all ballgowns and jewels, Jean knew. There had been no queen in residence during all the many years Jean had spent in the castle, but she had seen up close the responsibilities and restraints placed upon the king, and she knew his wife would be equally beholden. To be constantly at the center of everyone's attention, to have one's every move, every word, poured over, to carry the weight of the kingdom upon one's shoulders, was a heavy burden, and one she would not pick up without much thought.

_But you would stay here, in your home, _she thought, _and you could still walk here every evening, if you wished, and you would have _him_, always. _

As if her thoughts had conjured him upon the spot he came to her, his arrival announced by a heavy, familiar footfall. Jean did not turn her head, but she smiled into the darkness as he came to stand beside her, warm and strong in his accustomed blue suit. His jacket was unbuttoned and his tie had been discarded, but there was no scent of whiskey wafting off him, and for that she was grateful.

"Hello, Jean," he said softly.

"Good evening, Your Majesty," she answered, still smiling. Beside her Lucien laughed and slung one arm around her waist, leaning in to press his lips against her temple. Perhaps she ought to scold him for such easy affection, but she yearned for his embrace, and could not find the strength to put a stop to it. If things were to continue between them she would have to decide on a boundary, of sorts; by unspoken agreement they did not converse with one another when there were witnesses about, and he had not found his way back to her room in the still of the night. _That_ was something they would almost certainly have to discuss, she was sure, for when he touched her she shivered with want, and she knew his own passion simmered just beneath the surface. _Best get that straight now, _she thought, _and avoid any trouble in the future._

"How was your day, my darling?" he asked her then.

It had been almost a fortnight since she'd fallen asleep in his arms, since she'd nearly left him and he had won her round. In that time he had engineered an excuse to see her at least once a day; lingered in the counsel room after his ministers had left and spoken to her while together they cleared away the tea things, or caught her in his rooms in the afternoon, or met her as he had now on the battlements in the evening. And each time he asked her how she was faring, what she was doing with her time, and seemed to want to hear the answer.

"It was lovely," she sighed, leaning against him, grateful for the solitude afforded them here, and the comfort of him beside her.

"I saw you in the garden," he told her then. "I am thinking of building you that glasshouse, Jean. Perhaps it could be a birthday present."

"January is hardly the time for building glasshouses," she chided him gently. In truth his words troubled her; he had cast his thoughts to the future already, was making grand plans, but Jean had not yet come to a decision. It would not do for him to take her acceptance for granted; they had so many troubles to sort out between them, and she was determined to make no choice until she could see for herself that it was the right one.

"I'll find some occasion my lady thinks more suitable, then," he answered winsomely.

That answer did nothing to assuage her doubts; _my lady,_ he had called her, _my darling, _and though she likewise had called him _mine_ still the thought was unsettling. Could she really be his lady, his queen? Could she really accept such an elevation? She had been a farmer's daughter, a farmer's wife, a cook, a housekeeper, and she had never dreamed of being something so fine as a _queen. _The idea was daunting; though she had learned a great deal about genteel society during her many years of service she had never been one of _them_, and she feared that no matter what happened next, she would never be. The titled nobles would look down on her, surely, and the servants would not know how to speak to her, and -

"You're thinking very loudly," he told her, a note of worry in his voice.

"I haven't decided anything, Lucien."

"I know," he said, sighing. "And you don't have to. Not now, at any rate. It's your choice, Jean. I only want you to be happy."

She turned to look at him and his arms encircled her, her hands coming up to rest against his chest while his own settled low on her back. Standing like this, so close to him, looking up into his handsome face, his pleading blue eyes, the thought of rejecting him seemed impossible.

"How was your day?" she asked him then. If he could do her this courtesy then she supposed she owed him the same, and besides learning more about his daily life might help to ease some of her concerns about the expectations placed on royalty.

"Quiet," he answered, reaching out to brush back a lock of her hair. "Newspapers at breakfast, then the letters, then lunch, and the red box after that. Nothing terribly noteworthy today, and for that I'm truly grateful."

He had spent most of the day at his desk, then, though that was hardly a surprise. When she first came to the castle Jean had no notion of how a king spent his day, but she had quickly learned. The king received several hundred letters every day, and though he did not answer all of them himself instructions had been given to Alice regarding the sort of letters that required his personal attention, and she delivered them to him every morning. After that came the red box, the endless litany of Cabinet documents, telegrams and state papers the king was required to review, approve, and sign each day. Someone had told her once that the box had not always been red - it was in fact not so much a box as it was a briefcase - but the British queen received her documents in a red box, and King Thomas had taken a shine to the idea of it, treating the delivery of the documents with its own sort of ritual. Perhaps if Jean were queen, she would have letters of her own to answer; she would certainly be expected to give her patronage to worthy causes, and surely that would keep her busy, when she had someone else to change her bedclothes and manage her laundry.

_If, _she told herself.

"That's good, then," she said.

And it was. They stood together for quite some time after that, simply holding on to one another. The questions swirling through Jean's mind remained unanswered, but she could not find the words to give them voice, and Lucien did not seem to be in any hurry to solve the problems they faced. It would be enough for now, she told herself, simply to hold him, and leave the future for another day.


	34. Chapter 34

_1 June 1959_

"Might I have a word in private, Your Majesty?"

Matthew's expression was grim - well, grimmer than usual - and brooked no argument.

"Of course," Lucien answered at once, and together they trooped into the castle, making their way to the king's private study on the first floor. There was an office in Lucien's suite where he often sat in the mornings, reading over the newspapers and sipping coffee, but the first floor study was more formal, and more appropriate for a meeting such as this, and would spare Matthew's leg the journey up the stairs besides.

As they walked along some of Lucien's good cheer faded. It was a bright, cheerful afternoon, and he had spent most of the day overseeing the State Opening of Parliament. It was an elaborate, complex ritual that involved not just the King's Speech to the assembled Lords and Commons, but a whole host of strange traditions born out of the long and storied history of his kingdom. Though Lucien did not much enjoy wearing the heavy Imperial crown or giving a speech about the state of the kingdom and his expectations for the coming Parliamentary session there had been something of a festive atmosphere throughout the day. He had ridden through the streets in a horse-drawn coach, and seen many of his people gathered along the pavement, watching and waving to him, and he had carried off the speech - written almost entirely by young Miss Anderson, though a few older men in the Press Office had tried to take credit for her words - without a hitch. The day had been, to his mind, a great success, one of the first real tests of his Kingship which had not resulted in calamity.

Yes, his heart had been light, but no sooner had that coach entered the castle grounds than Matthew had called him away, clearly troubled, and anything that troubled the commander of the palace guard must of necessity concern the king.

_What could it be? _He wondered to himself as he walked along. The security services had made noises about the king's safety the way they did every time he appeared in public, but the day was too well organized, and there were far too many soldiers and police about for anyone to get close enough to do him any harm. If there had been any attempt on his life it had been feeble indeed, and he had not taken note of it. But if it were not his personal safety that concerned Matthew, what else could it be? There had been no real trouble in the kingdom since Lucien's arrival; there had been grumblings of a miner's strike but it had never come to be, and the average citizens seemed to be content, for the most part.

"What is it, Matthew?" Lucien asked him anxiously as they settled into their respective chairs behind the closed door of the study, Lucien on one side of the desk and Matthew on the other. There was no point, he thought, in beating around the bush; he and Matthew were both forthright men, and old friends. They had no need for couching their words in the more flowery language preferred by the politicians.

"I thought I told you to be careful," Matthew grumbled, stretching his bad leg out in front of him and resting his right hand on his cane, staring at Lucien balefully.

"I really haven't the faintest idea-"

"Jean," Matthew said simply, cutting across Lucien's protests at once.

"Ah," Lucien answered, somewhat lamely. _If you hurt her, king or not I'll break your bloody kneecaps. _Yes, Matthew had warned him on the subject of Jean some months before, but Lucien couldn't see what that had to do with anything; they had been nothing but careful, had contained their dalliances to moments when no one else was around to see them, and he had not made his way back to her bed, no matter how badly he might wish to. It seemed several weeks too late for Matthew to admonish him for his recklessness upon his return from China, but Lucien could think of no other time when he and Jean had been lax enough to arouse suspicion, and as far as he was aware she was happy as could be, and entirely unhurt.

"I told you not to hurt her, but you just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Matthew, really, I can assure my conduct towards Jean-"

"Has been entirely inappropriate, and you have not been as careful as you think."

Dread fell upon Lucien in that moment, heavy and thick. For the last few weeks he had been caught up in a sort of euphoria, delighted to know that his daughter was safe, overjoyed to know that Jean loved him as he loved her, his thoughts focused entirely on a future that seemed infinitely brighter, infinitely happier than it had done when he first came to this place. No shadow had been cast over those heady days of late spring, and his heart had been at peace. But now here Matthew sat before him, words of gloom upon his lips, and Lucien could not thank his old friend for it.

"You were seen," Matthew said simply. "Someone saw her letting you into her room the night you came back, and they saw you just a few days ago, kissing her on the roof."

"Bloody hell," Lucien sighed, scrubbing a weary hand over his face.

"It was a guard, and as soon as I find out which one, I've a mind to hang him from the gate."

"Hang on," Lucien said quickly, seizing upon the one piece of hope available to him, "if you don't know who it was, how could you-"

"It's all anyone's bloody talking about," Matthew said with a shrug. "Gossip takes a long time to reach the commander's ears, but I heard it today. The guards were talking about it, and if they know, then the maids surely know, and if the maids know, well, then everybody knows. No secret stays inside the castle for long, you must know that. Someone was feeding information about your movements in China to your cousins, and once your...situation with Jean becomes common knowledge in the castle, you can be sure they'll hear about it as well."

"Bloody hell," Lucien said again. No other words would come to him as he sat, aghast and fretful. This was exactly what Jean had been afraid of, that they might become the subject of gossip before they'd settled things between them, that people might cast aspersions on the character of their king, and whisper vile things about the woman who had seduced him. It wasn't true, of course; Lucien had pursued Jean because he adored her most completely, and she had only given in to his advances after much careful thought and conversation between them. To his mind their story was really rather lovely, two people widowed by war finding happiness with one another at last, but he knew the gossipers would not see it that way. And if word reached the politicians before Lucien had a chance to explain himself...well, it didn't bear thinking about.

"I'll have to speak to Jean," he spoke the words as the realization dawned on him. They must act, and quickly, must come up with some sort of plan. It was not the king who made decisions regarding the employment of the castle servants, and if someone decided it was for the best that the meddlesome housekeeper be removed from the picture there was little he could do to stop it, not without providing further fodder for the gossips. Their position was tenuous indeed, and time was against them.

"Yes," Matthew said heavily. "You will. And soon, I wager. I don't pretend to know what's going on between the two of you and frankly I don't care, but you're playing with her livelihood and her reputation. What do you think will happen to her, when this news gets out? They'll call her the king's whore, and there will be no one in the kingdom who will employ her if she gets turned out of the castle."

Lucien gawped at him, devastated by the very idea. "Surely you don't think-"

"You're the _king, _sir. You have power, but it's limited. If you want to marry her - and you better, or so help me - Parliament will want to have its say. And if they turn against you, there's nothing you can do to stop them. They can't legislate your marriage but they can take you to task in the court of public opinion. They will ruin her, before you ever make it to the altar."

"What can I do?" Lucien asked him desperately. He felt himself hemmed into a corner, and though he was prepared to fight his way out he did not have the first idea of where to begin.

"First, you speak to Jean. Find out what she wants. If she doesn't want to marry you, you'll need to arrange a position for her somewhere else, and quickly. Maybe the lake house, she likes it there."

"She loves the flowers," Lucien mused sadly. The very idea of it terrified him, but he could see the wisdom in Matthew's words; it was Lucien who had put her in this position, who now threatened her future, and if she did not wish to marry him the least he could do was see that she was taken care of. And she did love the sprawling manor set in the midst of those beautiful gardens, that glasshouse where they'd danced beneath the stars; perhaps she could find some happiness there, if not with him.

"If she does want to marry you, you'll need to move quickly. The Prime Minister may be your friend, if you can convince him you haven't totally taken leave of your senses. But even if she agrees to an engagement she may need to be moved. It's not uncommon for a royal fiancé to stay in the castle before a wedding, but this is a special case."

It was rather a lot of information for Lucien to take in all at once, and his head was spinning. What he needed, more than anything, was to speak to Jean, but knowing that there were eyes and ears throughout the castle taking note of his every move he was hesitant to seek her out right away. If the guards who had seen them talking on the battlements could not be trusted then he could not go to her there, and the kitchen was likewise too exposed. He would have to make alternate arrangements; the thought of setting up an assignation as if they were a pair of spies in their own home galled him, but he knew he had little choice.

"Thank you, Matthew," he said heavily.

"Just talk to her, Your Majesty," his old friend answered, rising slowly from his chair. "Soon."

* * *

It was a beautiful evening, and Jean had every intention of making her way to the rooftop once the sun sank below the horizon. Her heart was light; she had spent the morning, along with many of the staff, crowded around the television in Matthew's office watching the King's Speech. He had comported himself with dignity, and on that little screen he had seemed ten feet tall and unassailable, the very image of kingly grandeur, and she had been so proud of him she could not keep the smile from her face. As he spoke passionately of his concern for his people's welfare, his dedication to the continued success of the National Health and the kingdom's schools, she had thought only how she loved his tender heart, his compassion for the people under his charge. Though the early days of his reign had seen their share of stumbles he was finding his way, now, and wielding his power with the authority that befit his station, and she couldn't have been more pleased.

Before she went up to the rooftop, however, before she stood beside the old stone parapet and waited with bated breath for him to join her, she had decided to fetch herself a cup of tea. It would be another half hour or so before the sun set completely, and she would not venture up the stairs until it was dark. Humming softly to herself, then, she floated through the beautiful corridors of her home, intent on reaching the kitchen.

To her relief it was empty; Jean could not hide her bright smile, and she did not fancy answering questions on what had put it there. Satisfied that she was truly alone she put the kettle on, but she had no sooner fetched down a cup than she heard the sound of a light footfall behind her, and turned to see Mattie making her way across the kitchen.

"Jean!" the girl said, delighted. "I was hoping I'd find you here."

"Oh?" Jean asked, taking down a second cup without being asked. If someone had to interrupt her she was glad it was Mattie; she took great comfort from the girl's company, and having someone to share her tea with would make the time go faster.

"I've been looking all over for you." Mattie settled onto one of the tall stools at the end of the counter, propped her elbows up in front of her and looked at Jean with wide, eager eyes. "Is it true, then?" she asked breathlessly.

"Is what true?" Jean answered. From the moment they met Jean had been terribly fond of Mattie, as fond as if the girl were her own flesh and blood, and she was amused to see the almost childlike excitement on Mattie's face.

"About you and the king!" Mattie exclaimed, and the teacup went tumbling from Jean's hand, rolling across the countertop as all her happiness fled, and horror took its place. "I've only just heard and I think it's the most marvelous thing," Mattie carried on, apparently oblivious to Jean's distress. "Oh, Jean, you could be Queen! Oh it's so romantic, I-"

"Mattie," Jean said sharply, and at her words Mattie's lips clamped shut, her brow furrowing in worry. "I really don't have the first idea what you're talking about."

"Oh," Mattie said, though she did not sound as if she entirely believed what she'd been told. "I didn't mean-"

"Are people really saying such things?" Jean demanded. Behind her the kettle boiled, forgotten. _Oh, no,_ she thought dismally, _please, don't let it be true, don't let them be whispering already, I couldn't bear it. _

"I just heard some of the maids talking. They said someone saw you-"

"That's nonsense," Jean said at once. Lying was a sin, and one she would repent for later, but in the moment she felt she had no other choice. "And I'd thank you not to repeat it. Rumors like that have a way of turning very nasty, and there's absolutely nothing going on between the King and I."

_Or there won't be now, not until I've had a chance to speak to him. Oh, we were so careful! How could this have happened?_

The questions swirled round and round her mind, and Mattie just stared at her with the air of a puppy denied a treat. For a moment Jean regretted the harsh way she'd spoken; it wasn't Mattie's fault that other people were whispering, and Mattie had come to her excited at the prospect, not judging her or condemning her for her actions. Still, though, such rumors could not be allowed to spread.

"Have some tea, Mattie," Jean sighed, fetching the discarded cup and handing it over to her young friend. "I'm going to bed."

And so she did, turned and marched smartly from the kitchen and straight up to her room, her heart full of doubts.


	35. Chapter 35

_2 June 1959_

The night proved to be a sleepless one for Lucien. Though he knew it was folly he made his way up to the roof as soon as the sun fell, and wasted two fruitless hours there, pacing and waiting with no sign of his beloved. In that time he encountered several of the guards, patrolling the battlements with rifles propped against their shoulders, and though each lad in turn had been polite and deferential Lucien could not help but wonder as he passed them whether _this _was the lad who had spotted him up here with Jean, whether _that_ was the one who had started the malicious rumors that now threatened his happiness and all his plans for the future. No answer was forthcoming, at least not without the king directly questioning his guardsmen, and Lucien could not quite bring himself to do such a thing; they were young men for the most part, and he was sure that however the gossip had begun it had not been done with the intention of deliberately undermining his authority and ruining Jean's reputation forever.

When it became apparent that Jean would not be putting in an appearance he retired to his suite, and stayed up most of the night, pacing and drinking and trying to work his way through the problem at hand. He wanted to believe that the solution was a simple one, that he would ask Jean to marry him, and she would accept him, and he would tell Sir Patrick, and that would be that. Though his heart clung desperately to such hopes his head knew better; Jean had so far been reticent to agree to marriage for a variety of reasons, and though Lucien believed marrying Jean would satisfy his end of the bargain he'd struck with the PM he was certain Sir Patrick would not see it that way. Patrick wanted him to marry a nice, noble girl and fill the castle's nursery with babies, and Jean was no more than a housekeeper, on the wrong side of forty to boot. Nevermind that Lucien loved her; she was not what the PM had in mind for a queen, and without Sir Patrick's support…

_I won't give him any bloody choice, _Lucien told himself as he paced. _If Prince Rainier can marry a movie star, surely I can marry Jean. _

As the hours slipped away from him a plan formed in his mind. Jean would come to his rooms in the afternoon, the way she did every day, and he would meet her there, would speak to her quietly, earnestly of their predicament. Perhaps, he thought, if he could only convince her of the depth of his regard for her, surely she could be swayed. And when that was done, he would meet with Sir Patrick, and tell the man in no uncertain terms that unless he was allowed to marry Jean he would abdicate the throne. Of course, he had no idea of following through on such a threat - the very idea of having to choose between his love of Jean and his duty to his people turned his stomach - but perhaps it would be enough to cow Sir Patrick into submission.

If Jean would not accept him, though, if she decided it was altogether more than she could bear, if she asked to leave him...he would let her go, but he was not sure how he could possibly survive, without her warm smiles, her gentle counsel, the touch of her hand. A world without Jean would be to his mind like a world without sunlight. He had walked through the lonesome darkness of the world without love once before, and the very thought of doing so again left his hands trembling.

_It will be all right, _he told himself as the sun rose, as he poured another measure of whiskey and waited for Peter to come to him with his breakfast. _It has to be._

The hours before lunch were given over to documents, to the newspapers and the red box and the endless ream of paperwork that seemed to come with being king. Lucien spent a good deal of time at the small desk in his study; though he might perhaps have been more comfortable in his official office downstairs he had no desire to leave his suite, even for a moment, if it might mean missing Jean in the process. Alice sat with him for a while, discussing his next scheduled speaking engagement and dropping off the day's assortment of letters, but otherwise the minutes passed in quiet solitude for Lucien, until just after 1:00 that afternoon, by which time Peter had cleared away the crumbs of the king's lunch and the king himself was seriously considering a nap. The door to his suite opened and closed again, and Lucien, knowing he was expecting no further visitors, leapt to his feet at once, his heart racing.

"Jean!" he called out urgently as he strode from his study. She was not waiting for him in the parlor; perplexed, he called out to her a second time. "Jean?"

"I'm sorry, sir," came the answer. A timid little maid, hardly more than twenty, emerged from the bedroom clutching a crumpled pile of sheets, her eyes a bit wild as she gave a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. "Mrs. Beazley said I'm to clean your rooms now, sir, if it please you," the girl stammered.

For a moment Lucien could only stare at her, confused and concerned by turns. Always before Jean had insisted on being the only one to clean his rooms; that fact was as constant, as certain as the rising and the setting of the sun. It had always warmed his heart, to think of how she showed her affection for him in this way, how she shielded him from view of others who might not understand him, how she seemed to take pleasure in being near to him, in being privy to his secrets in a way no one else ever could. Why then, he wondered, would she make such a change now? Had the terrible whispers made their way to Jean already, was she even now trying to pull herself back from him? And how much damage had he done, lying in wait for her, calling out her name and revealing his own affections so plainly to this girl whose name he did not even know?

"I do beg your pardon," he said, breaking the terrible, awkward silence at last. "I was expecting someone else."

"Yes, sir," the girl said, staring resolutely at the carpet and refusing to meet his gaze. "I know, sir."

_Damn, _Lucien thought glumly; the maid had, with two simple words, proved the right of it. Everyone knew, then, that their king was sweet on his housekeeper, knew that she spent most every afternoon in his rooms, and if this girl was the talkative sort they would know far more, come suppertime. He could only imagine the way those facts could be interpreted; though Lucien had never once taken Jean to his bed during her afternoons in his suite the insinuation would be there, just the same. _They'll call her the king's whore, _that's what Matthew had said, and Lucien's blood ran cold at the very thought, He could not abide people saying such things about Jean, but he was certain that any attempt on his part to combat the rumors would only add fuel to the fire.

"I should get back to work, sir," the girl ventured timidly when Lucien did not respond. "But, if Your Majesty still wishes to speak to Mrs. Beazley, I believe you'll find her in the Great Hall." Without another word the maid turned and fled, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of Lucien's lips. Yes, no doubt the maid knew full well that her king was besotted with Mrs. Beazley, but her words had been kind, and she had seen at once what it was Lucien wanted, and sought to aid him on his quest. Perhaps it was not all doom and damnation, the fact that the servants knew what was afoot; perhaps, he thought as he strode out into the corridor, they would be happy for their king and his beloved.

_All is not lost, _he told himself, _not yet._

* * *

The begonia festival was coming, and Jean had never in her life been so grateful for the distraction it afforded. Bright, festive blooms would be shipped in from all over the kingdom to decorate every inch of the castle, and the parade grounds would be given over to the festival itself, booths set up for the competition and for craftsmen to sell their wares, vendors strolling among the crowds and children running to and fro, laughing. The king himself would declare the winner of the competition, and invite them along with their family back to the castle for the annual feast. Though the festival itself was not Jean's purview the decoration of the castle was, and so she had decided to spend this afternoon in the Great Hall, planning the arrangements so that the orders could be finalized before week's end. It would be a pleasant way to pass the time, would keep her thoughts and her hands busy, and would, she hoped, keep the sorrow at bay.

It had cost her dearly to send young Tilly upstairs to clean the king's suite, but as far as Jean could see there was no other choice. She could not continue as she had done, not while everyone was watching her. Appearances mattered rather more than truth, and she knew she must appear to be impartial, no more fond of this king than the last. Tilly was a timid girl, and quiet, and asked no questions when she received her marching orders. Any of the other girls might have seen Jean's decision as a confession of sorts, but not Tilly; or at least, if Tilly did realize what was afoot, she had the good sense to keep her opinions to herself, and for that Jean was grateful. Still, though, the care and keeping of the king had until now been Jean's responsibility, and she did not like the thought of sending someone else to his room. What if the bin was full of empty bottles, or what if he'd broken another glass in the night? What if there were pieces of stationary littered around the place, the desperate words of an eager heart spilled across them? What if Jean's trust in Tilly was misplaced, and she did not keep her king's secrets?

It didn't bear thinking about, but to Jean's mind there was no other way. He might have been waiting for her, if she'd gone up to his room, and she had no idea what she'd say to him if she found him there. How could she possibly explain any of this, her shame, her fear, the gnawing sense that she ought not marry him coupled with the desperate desire to do exactly that?

Lack of love was not her problem; if she did not love him, she could have easily turned away from him, and thought of him no more. She could have stepped lightly from the castle for the sake of her own future, and been content. But _oh, _she loved him - damn him - loved him in a quite hopeless, desperate sort of way. She wanted his arms around her, wanted to soft touch of his lips, wanted to curl herself against him and hear his rich, warm laughter, wanted to believe that they could be happy together. She wanted _him, _but to take him, she would have to take the crown, too, the attention, the responsibility, the politicians and the obligations, and she was still not entirely certain that such a union would be permitted, when it came right down to it.

_You're still just a farmgirl, _a terrible voice whispered in the back of her mind, _and you were not meant to have this man, this life. _

"Jean?"

The breath caught in her throat; somehow, despite all her best efforts, he had found his way to her, drawn to her as if by the sheer force of gravity. The great hall was vast and cavernous but empty at present, and the sound of his footsteps marching smartly across the marble echoed like the boom of some great, terrible drum. There was nowhere to hide, no excuse to send her far from his side; where she went, he was sure to follow, and she hated him and loved him for it in almost equal measure. With no other choice, then, she turned to meet her fate, curtsying shortly as he drew near.

"Your Majesty," she said coolly. His brow furrowed, hurt swirling in his deep blue eyes, and her heart clenched within her chest; he was _Lucien, _her Lucien, handsome and impulsive and more dear to her than any other, and though she could not bear to hurt him she felt as if she must, as if she had no other choice. He would not change his mind of his own accord, and so she would be forced to change it for him. _We must put an end to this, _she thought as she looked at him then, sorrow welling up within her. _We cannot go on._

"Jean," he said again, softly now that he stood close enough to touch her. "Please."

"This can't go on," she answered him, trying to find some way to soften the blow, though she knew she must deliver it. "You and I both know it. You're the king, and you must act like one. Whatever we wanted...it was only a dream, Lucien. Surely you know that."

_A beautiful dream, _she thought, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. _A dream I wanted more than any other, but a dream nonetheless. Oh, Lucien, my love, forgive me. I'm sorry I can't be what you need. _

"Jean, please-" he reached out as if to take hold of her hand, but she drew back from him, a tear spilling down her cheek despite her best efforts to hold her weeping in check. This beautiful, hopeless man; _why can't he see we have no other choice? _She could not allow his love of her to threaten his reputation, to drive a wedge between him and the government; they could destroy him, could with the press turn his legacy to ashes. And if anyone ever got wind of her own history, if the truth of her life before she'd come to the castle ever came to light, they'd ruin her, too. Though she had held him once the joy and the hope she'd felt then had turned to dust in her hands, and she found herself alone and abandoned, cursing her fate.

"Everyone knows, now, and you know what they're saying. A man like you can't marry someone like me." _No matter how much we both want it, no matter how wonderful it might have been. _

"Why not? Look at me, Jean." When she did not he stepped closer, and some of her resolve wavered. Her heart longed for him so fiercely, against all reason, and he was so close she could not find the strength to pull away. Sensing his advantage he moved at once, reached out to cradle her cheek in his palm and lift her gaze to his face. His touch was so tender, his skin so warm against her own, and _oh, _but she ached for the warmth, the reassurance of him. The tears were flowing freely now, and she could not stop them; the pleading expression in his eyes only added to her agony, only made this moment that much harder to bear. "Tell me you don't love me," he said desperately.

"Lucien," she choked out his name, but he carried on, heedless.

"If you don't love me, Jean, then I will let you go and never speak of this again. But please, Jean, if you feel anything for me at all, please, don't leave me."

_Just say it. If a lie is the only way to set him free, say it and let him go._ It was right there, on the tip of her tongue, the words that could put an end to this thing between them at last, and set him on the path to greatness, set him on the path to another woman's arms and a second chance at love and family. She knew that all she had to do was speak those words, and this terrible calamity would resolve itself at last, and yet when he was standing so close to her, gazing at her so earnestly, everything she wanted just within her grasp, her heart would not allow her to lie.

"I love you," she whispered desolately. "God help me, Lucien, but I do love you."

In an instant his arms were around her, and she collapsed against his chest, weeping. He held her close, held her tight, her head tucked beneath his chin, and though she was no more certain of their future than she had been when he entered the room so long as he held her she felt safe, and comforted. He was warm, and solid, and so bloody _certain; if he is so sure, _she thought then, _perhaps he is not wrong. _

"I know what people are saying, Jean," he told her then, still holding her so tightly, thick arms wrapped around her as if he intended to never let her go. "I know that you're afraid. But I love you, Jean, and I mean to marry you, if you'll have me."

"But what if-"

"You let me worry about Sir Patrick and the rest," he interrupted her at once. "I have a plan, my darling."

She lifted her head then, and found him looking down at her, smiling. "How can you be so sure?" she asked him in a tremulous voice. "There are so many things that could go wrong."

"I'm the king, remember?" he said gently. "They cannot stop me, and if they want peace they will accept my decision. I have dreamt of you, Jean, and dreams are what this world is built on. Look around you," he wrapped his arm low around her waist and pulled her in beside him, turning them both to gaze out upon the echoing vastness of the hall. The high-vaulted ceilings, ornately carved and inlaid with gold, disappeared into shadow above their heads, and the tall, glittering windows cast shafts of golden sunlight across the pristine white marble floor. The walls were hung with priceless tapestries and paintings, and every inch of the room spoke of elegance, and grandeur, and hope. It remained one of the most beautiful things Jean had ever seen, but as she looked at it now she felt almost as if she were seeing it for the first time.

"This place is a dream, Jean, built by those who hoped for the future. It can be our dream, too, my darling, if you want it."

For a moment Jean simply stood, holding onto him, gazing out across the room, her thoughts racing. There was some truth to what he said; Sir Patrick and the rest had been relieved when Lucien came home, she knew, and they were desperate to see that he kept the crown, to ensure it did not pass to one of his undesirable cousins. Perhaps, with the right sort of persuasion - and she had never met anyone more persuasive than Lucien - they would accept it in time. In a year, or two, or five, perhaps it would not matter where she had begun; perhaps, in the end, they would look at her, and see only their queen.

"I don't care about all of this," she told him then, turning to wrap her arms around his neck. "I only want you." And she did, _oh,_ but she did. The dresses and the parties and the jewels held no appeal for her; in fact, the very idea of being queen turned her blood to ice in her veins. But it would be a small price to pay, she thought, if in the end he kept his arms around her for all the rest of his days. "Promise me, Lucien. Promise me we'll be all right."

"I swear it," he said, and then he bowed his head, and kissed her sweetly. Only for a moment, and then he was pulling away, smiling his boyish smile. "So will you marry me, my darling?"

"If you can convince Sir Patrick," she said slowly. "If he will agree, if Parliament will not stand in our way, then...then yes, Lucien, I will marry you."

A laugh escaped him then, a quick, booming sound of delight, and he caught her in his arms and lifted her clean off the ground, his lips finding hers once more. With her arms around his neck she kissed him back, messily, tears still painting her cheeks. _Yes, _if he could bring Sir Patrick and the rest of the cabinet on board, if they had the support of the government and the people they loved best, _yes, _they could have this dream, this sweet hope for the future that had so consumed them both. Accepting his proposal was quite the most reckless thing Jean had ever done in her life, but it was hard to stand in the way of her king's determination, his confidence. If Lucien believed they could find a way to be together, Jean would not stand in his way, not now. After all, he had told her he had a plan, and she believed him.

"Dance with me," he whispered breathlessly as he set her feet upon the ground.

"There's no music," she answered, smiling as he rested his forehead against hers, knowing what he was going to do before he did it and yet finding herself utterly delighted when he began to hum. It was the same song he had sung to her as they danced in the glasshouse what seemed a lifetime before, and her heart was filled with joy as they began to sway softly together.

"When I fall in love," he sang, spinning her slowly around the floor in the vast emptiness of the great hall, "it will be forever..."

_Forever and for always,_ she thought, her arms still clasped around his neck. The way before them was still cloaked in shadow, but she loved him, and he loved her, and for now that would be enough.


	36. Chapter 36

_8 June 1959_

"Working hard?" she asked him as she came slipping into his study on silent feet. Lucien startled at the sound of her voice; he had not heard the door open, had not heard her approach, but his surprise gave way to delight in a moment. There was no surprise more lovely than this, the sight of Jean in her well-fitted navy dress, a smile upon her face and two steaming cups of tea in her hands. The afternoon had been a long one, and he was much in need of tea, and much in need of her.

"Always," he said, laughing, "though I welcome the distraction." He held out his hand to her and she came to him at once, placing the teacups on the desk before reaching out to clasp his offered hand in her own. He smiled, and lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her gently and held her tight, his heart full of joy to think that she loved him, that she was growing more confident in their connection to one another, that he might one day make her his wife. There was nothing he wanted more than that, to take her hand for all to see, to have her with him always, and never have to worry about what people might think should they be spotted together. She calmed him, soothed him, set him straight when he needed it, and she brought such hope to him as he had not felt for many a long year.

And she had, at long last, accepted him. After a fashion, for her acceptance had not come without a caveat, but he was confident he could bring Sir Patrick around to the idea of his marrying Jean and once that was done...once that was done he could hold her, whenever, wherever he wished. _And for an engagement present, _he thought as he looked at her, _I shall give her a glasshouse, and she can grow whatever she wants inside it. _

Affection made him bold and so he gave a gentle tug on her arm, and she went with him, allowed him to pull her into his lap while her arms wrapped around his neck and a silvery laugh slipped past her lips. Jean took advantage of her new proximity to press a kiss against his temple, and then she simply held him while he held her, content to be near one another in this most rare, most precious of moments.

"I have a meeting with Sir Patrick tomorrow," Lucien told her, gazing up into her beautiful face, watching her bright eyes sparkle at him, watching the furrow of her brow and the way her lips shifted as she digested this news.

"I see," she said, reaching out to fuss absently with his tie. "And will you-"

"I will tell him that I mean to marry you. And I will hear his arguments, if he has any, and I will beat them, and then I am going to see about getting you a proper ring." A grin flashed across his face at the very thought; Jean was not a particularly ostentatious sort of woman, and while he knew that eventually she would be forced to grow more accustomed to finery he had no intention of presenting her with some monumental diamond. He had in fact already procured his late mother's engagement ring from her affects; it was tasteful, though small by royal standards, delicate and lovely, and deep in his heart he knew it was the ring that Jean would want, the one that would most speak to her heart, the one she would be happiest with. It was the sort of ring, he thought, that she could wear for the rest of her life.

"I hope you aren't getting ahead of yourself," she sighed, some of her good cheer fading as she retrieved one of the teacups, and took a sip. "Sir Patrick will almost certainly be against us-"

"I have a plan, remember?" Lucien raised an eyebrow at her, the way she so often did to him when he was being foolish, and when she laughed he took advantage of her momentary distraction to seize hold of the cup she held, and steal a sip for himself.

"You're always so sure you know best," she said wryly.

"Not always," he answered truthfully, "but this time, my darling, everything is going to be all right. You'll see." He started to tell her his plan, the way he intended to bring Sir Patrick round to his way of thinking, but the sound of the door in the parlor opening had them both jumping like startled rabbits at once; Jean scrambled out of his lap and only just managed to right her dress before young Peter came shuffling in, wide-eyed and looking almost afraid.

"Begging your pardon, sir," he said, "but Sir Patrick is here and asking to speak with you at once."

That was not welcome news; they were not due to meet until the following day, and Lucien did not like the thought of a matter urgent enough to warrant the Prime Minister arriving at the castle unannounced. Jean, too, looked troubled at this revelation, though of course she did not speak; she only gathered up the teacups, refusing to meet his gaze while he slipped into his jacket.

"Is he in-"

"The counsel room, sir," Peter finished for him.

"Right, well, off I go then," Lucien said. After all, he had no other choice. And while he wanted, very much, to take Jean into his arms, to kiss her cheek and tell her once again that everything would be all right, Peter's presence made such informality unthinkable, and he was forced to depart without offering her any reassurances at all.

* * *

It was impolite to eavesdrop, and Jean knew that better than most, but she was terribly concerned by Sir Patrick's unexpected arrival, and she did not know when next she'd get a moment alone with Lucien in which to discuss whatever ill tidings the man had brought with him. The counsel room was part of a warren of offices and meeting chambers that filled the lower level of the castle, and an interior doorway connected it to an adjacent office. The office was much smaller and seldom used - its last occupant had borne the title of _seneschal, _that's how long it had been since last office had been assigned to anyone - but the door was not particularly thick, and if one were to sit quietly in the abandoned office near the door, one could hear most every word spoken in the counsel room. This presented a matter of national security, as it would not do for just anyone to go wandering in there, and so the office remained locked.

Only a few select members of staff had keys to that little room, and of course, the head housekeeper was one of them.

It might have been a breach of trust, was certainly an egregious overstepping of the boundaries between the government and the people who served them, but Jean was eager to hear what Sir Patrick had to say, for somewhere deep in her heart she feared it might concern her intimately. It had been over a week since she'd accepted Lucien's proposal, since the gossip of her compatriots had first come to light, and for a week she had been waiting anxiously to see which of her friends would betray her first. After all, news of Lucien's trip to China had made its way to the press - though, not mercifully, the true reason for that trip - and if those details could escape the confines of the castle it stood to reason that other, more salacious tidbits might also make their way out into the world. Even if the Prime Minister had not come to discuss her at all there was a chance Lucien might raise the issue once more pressing matters were dealt with, and she rather thought she ought to hear the impressive arguments he had so far only hinted at.

So it was that she unlocked the little office and slid inside, promptly locking the door behind her before taking up her post on the far side of the room, her ear pressed against the door that connected the office to the counsel room.

"The editor of this particular newspaper owes me a good many favors," Sir Patrick was saying, and his tone was cross indeed, "and so he has agreed not to run the story. But you must see, sir, how close we have come to calamity."

"This is madness," she heard Lucien answer, dismayed. "How could anyone say such things? It might not even be true!"

"Which part?" Sir Patrick fired back. "The part where it says you have been carrying on an illicit relationship with your housekeeper, or the part where it says she was already pregnant when she married the first time?"

A gasp escaped her, an icy fist of fear clenching suddenly, unbearably around her heart. _Oh, no, _she thought, so terrified that she had begun to shake from head to toe, _oh, God, no, how could they have found out? How could this have happened so quickly? What are we going to do?_ It was her very worst nightmare, come to life right before her, but somewhere deep inside her heart a soft, angry voice whispered to her, reminded her that she should have known better, that there was a price to pay for reaching above her own means. Devastation had been hanging like an axe above her head for months now, and it would seem the killing blow was falling at last, and nothing she could do to stop it.

"This must stop, Your Majesty," Sir Patrick said then.

"I agree," Lucien growled. "I'm going to find the person who spoke to this journalist, and I am going to -"

"That's not what I was referring to," Sir Patrick cut across him sharply. "This threat has been neutralized for now. The paper will not run the story. But in the meantime, we must move Mrs. Beazley out of the castle and you must stop this ridiculous liaison before there are consequences."

Perhaps Lucien made to protest; Jean could not be sure, and then Sir Patrick was speaking again, and she was holding her breath while she listened, every fiber of her being focused on his words, shame and grief threatening to drag her under, to knock the legs out from beneath her where she stood.

"Every king has his mistress, sir, that's hardly shocking. But you must marry first, and quickly, before news of this gets out. It will be much harder to convince a noble lady to take your hand if everyone knows you've been chasing after the help."

"I mean to marry Mrs. Beazley," Lucien ground out from between clenched teeth, and the conviction in his voice offered Jean the barest thread of hope; she clung to it, desperately, praying that Lucien could find some way out of this, when she herself could not.

"That was not our agreement," Sir Patrick answered. _Agreement? _Jean wondered. _What on earth - _"You and I agreed that if your wife could not be found, or if she was found to be dead, that you would marry a lady of good breeding who could provide you with an heir to the throne. We agreed, your majesty, to secure the line of succession. We did not agree that you would marry a servant, let alone one who's likely too old to conceive already!"

As the conversation on the other side of the door played out, a good many emotions wound their way through Jean. At first had been shame, the old familiar shame at having been caught doing things she shouldn't. She'd felt it as a teenager, when she stayed out past her curfew, and again when she fell pregnant and was forced to confess to her mother, forced to marry Christopher in a hurry. She'd felt shame when she lost her first child, and again when her husband died and she could no longer keep up the farm on her own. Shame had followed her; no matter how hard she tried to do _good, _to be _good, _to be precisely where she was meant to and doing what she ought, it seemed that her heart always tripped her up, in the end, and revealed her for the brazen girl she could be, when she set her hopes on something just beyond her grasp.

After the shame had come fear, fear at the thought of losing Lucien, being cast from her home, set aside when all she wanted seemed to be just within her grasp. Fear at having been caught out, fear of what came next; she had been nearly swallowed up by fear.

But what she felt now, hearing those words from Sir Patrick, was neither shame, nor fear, nor doubt nor sorrow. It was, quite plainly, _rage. _Anger suffused her very being, set her hands to trembling, frustrated tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. There had been an _agreement, _an agreement she had known nothing about; Lucien had agreed to marry, and then set his sights on her. Had he done such a thing, as he said, because he loved her, or did he only believe he loved her because he had set his sights on marriage, and she was the first agreeable woman he'd seen? Was his haste to marry her borne of his great love of her, or his need to appease Sir Patrick?

And then, to add insult to injury, Sir Patrick had declared her _too old; _the words confronted her, left a sense of righteous indignation swirling through her. _How dare he, _she thought, her hands clenched in fists by her sides; _how dare he? _How dare he assume her past her prime - though she knew in her heart he was likely not far off the mark she had not yet undergone the change and perhaps a child was not entirely out of the question - how dare he insinuate she had no value if she could not bear children? As if that could be her only possible contribution to a marriage, as if without it she was of no consequence at all?

And how dare Lucien not tell her any of this? The anger built, then, as she thought about Lucien's pride, the casual way he had assured her that he had everything in hand. He most certainly did not, for what galled Jean most of all was the knowledge that Sir Patrick was right. If Li would not come home the king would need an heir, and Jean was not certain she could give him one. What then would become of their kingdom? Would Lucien arrive home in time to stave off the calamity of his cousin's succession, only to choose to put his own happiness first, to put the eventual chaos off for only another decade or two before he himself died? What would become of the country, if they lost this king without another worthy soul in line to take his place?

That stung most of all, more than anything. Sir Patrick had been thinking of future of the kingdom, while Lucien and Jean been thinking only of themselves. _He is the king, _she thought then. _He can not afford the luxury of being a man. _

"I will not sit here and listen to you speak about Mrs. Beazley this way," Lucien growled on the other side of the door, drawing Jean's attention back to that awful conversation.

"You will, if you care about what happens to your kingdom, sir," the Prime Minister answered him coolly. "You must have an heir-"

"I have an heir!"

"You, sir, have a Chinese girl who has no intention of stepping foot inside this country and who would not be accepted in any case. Parliament will not condone your marriage to your housekeeper."

"I don't need your bloody permission-"

"No, sir, you don't, but without my support, articles like this one will appear in newspapers across the country. Can you imagine what sort of thing they'd say about her, given the chance? Living beneath your roof, spending time alone in your rooms each day, and now we learn she already started one marriage in the family way? That's not to mention her son, I've set Bill Hobart to look into this Jack Beazley, and what he's found would ruin Mrs. Beazley."

The tears broke free from her then; she could not stop them. It simply wasn't fair; Jack had been a good boy once, had been her very heart, but he had gone astray. She had tried so hard, for so long, had done everything she could think of, but her darling boy had fallen into shadows. To hear Sir Patrick speak about him now, to consider even the possibility that others might do the same, might cast aspersions on him and on _her_ for not having a more upstanding son, was too terrible to imagine. _They can say whatever they like about me, _she thought_, but I couldn't bear to have them say such things about my children._

The terrible, heartbreaking realization of her predicament came over Jean then, sharp and fast as lightning. Lucien had no plan for this; he had not known, when this meeting began, just how great were the obstacles stacked against them. There could be no hope of success in the face of such dreadful opposition; the only dignified course, she was beginning to see, would be retreat. The only way to spare herself the shame, to spare her sons the public scrutiny, to secure an heir to the throne and in so doing secure the nation's future, would be for her to leave, and never see the man she loved again. What could love hope to accomplish, in the face of such overwhelming facts? Her love of him could not change their circumstances; he was the king, and his duty lay with his people, and not his heart. She had told him so, once, had whispered to him that time and planning would not change who they were, but proud and haughty and unused to failure as he was Lucien had barreled onward.

_No more, _she thought sadly. _I have to protect him. _Lucien would not back down, she knew, but Jean was beginning to see there was no other choice. If he could not save himself, she would do it for him.

"You don't need our permission," Sir Patrick said, casting one final blow, "but by law the king must be married in the church, and after a few months of stories like that one you might find it difficult to locate a priest willing to officiate."

"I swear, Patrick, I love that woman, and I have made my choice. I will marry her, or I will abdicate the throne."

Jean stepped away from the door, then, and scrubbed her hands across her tear-stained cheeks. There was no need for her to hear more; she had made up her mind, and Lucien's final declaration only strengthened her resolve. If he was determined to throw the kingdom away for her sake the only course of action available to her would be to run. To allow him to do such a thing was unthinkable; her love was not worth the price of damning the country to the king's cousin Edward, to a Nazi sympathizer and a brute. The king must remain on his throne, and she could not let him throw it away for her sake.

_It will go easier for him, if I'm gone, _she thought as she drew in a deep breath, as she squared her shoulders and slipped silently from the office. _He will forget this love, in time. Men always do. And then he can marry the Lady Ann, and he can have his heir, and the kingdom will be safe. _

It was not the first time Jean had resolved to leave the castle, and she had plans still in place, plans she could put into motion. It would be perhaps the hardest thing she'd ever done, to leave her home and her heart behind her, to tear herself away from the promise of joy for the sake of pragmatic reality, but there was no other choice. _The end has come, _she thought, drifting up the stairs towards her room silent as a ghost. _And I must face it. _


	37. Chapter 37

_8 June 1959_

_I swear, Patrick, I love that woman and I have made my choice. I will marry her, or I will abdicate the throne. _

It was a desperate gamble, but it was the only card Lucien had left to play. He had known from the very start that it might well come to this, but he had never imagined that it would have been so difficult to speak those words. His heart was racing alongside his thoughts, a pounding in his head so loud he was almost certain Patrick could hear it. So much had happened, so very quickly, and he had not been prepared to face such seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

The mockup of the newspaper was still spread out on the table in front of him, the headline _The King's Mistress _spelled out in bold block letters above an old and not entirely flattering picture of Jean. The details of that article haunted him, taunted him; could it be, he wondered, that what the journalist had written was true, that Jean had gone to her first marriage with a baby already in her belly? She'd told him the ages of her children once; he remembered them well, for the younger was the same age as Li, and the elder only two years her senior. But he couldn't reconcile those truths with the article in front of him; it said that she'd married in 1934, at age nineteen, but her eldest boy had not been born until two years later. Did that mean the article was untrue, or did it mean that there was still more about Jean's past he'd never reckoned with? And what about her son, her Jack; what had Bill Hobart found that made Sir Patrick so nervous about him? Jean had told him once that Jack was her troublemaker, but she had not told him any specifics, had certainly never implied he might have got on the wrong side of the law. Had she hidden the truth from him deliberately, or was Sir Patrick only trying to intimidate him?

And what about the matter of his heir? He had never been particularly concerned about the line of succession; his daughter was safe and well and expecting a child of her own, and he himself was in fine health. Before now he had always thought he would have time enough to settle the matter further down the line. Perhaps Li would change her mind, and come to him. Perhaps he could adopt some worthy soul, and secure the future of his country. Perhaps he and Jean were not too old, yet, to start a family of their own. _But what if none of that comes to be? _He wondered now. _What if Sir Patrick is right, and the time has passed when Jean could conceive, what if Li remains determined to stay in China and her child with her, what if one of these bastards who keeps trying to kill me finally gets lucky? What will become of us then? _Before this moment he had believed, truly, that he could follow his heart, could marry his love, and let the rest crinkle out as it would, but now he was beginning to see that Sir Patrick, while he had been rather callous, might have had the right of it. Perhaps it had been selfish of him, to think only of what he wanted, and neglect the future of his kingdom.

He had no intention of following through on his threat; though it would break his heart clean in two, he knew he could not step aside and leave a vacuum in his wake, leave the future of his country in the hands of his deplorable cousin. There were too many lives at stake, and he had been too long a soldier to sacrifice the good of the many for the sake of his own desperate yearning. And besides, if what that article said was true, if those secrets should ever come to light, Jean would be ruined, and he knew he would never forgive himself for visiting such horror upon her.

Across the table from him Sir Patrick frowned, but there was a glint in his eye that told Lucien all too plainly that the PM had seen straight through his bluff, and knew he would never make good on his threat. The words hung suspended between them for a long moment, and then Sir Patrick leaned towards him and spoke in a low, terrible voice.

"You may do that if you wish, sir," he said slowly. "But if you do, your cousin Edward will assume the throne. And when he does, his first move will be to ensure his own power, and that will mean eliminating any potential threat to his legitimacy. He will move at once to neutralize you, and your daughter, and your wife. You will have no funds, and no corner of this world will be safe for you. You would leave your country in the hands of a Nazi, and your family's lives will be forfeit. Surely, you must see-"

"Enough," Lucien said raggedly, raising his hand in defeat. "Enough."

He rose from his chair, and ran his hand over his hair, weary down to his very bones and full of sorrow. What he needed, more than anything, was to speak to Jean. He needed to know whether what the damnable article had said was true, or whether they could defend themselves from such slander. He needed to know if she still wished to marry him, after all this. He needed to talk it through with her, every bit, and hear her gentle wisdom. Perhaps it was not too late; perhaps there was some avenue he could not find on his own that would lead them into joy. If there was any way forward for them he was certain Jean could find it.

"We will meet again tomorrow," he said, "and I will have an answer for you then."

That seemed to satisfy Patrick; perhaps he believed he had made his point, and that given some time his unruly king would come to see sense.

"Very well, Your Majesty," he answered.

"Burn that," Lucien added, pointing to the article that threatened to destroy his every happiness, and then he left, walking on leaden feet away from that place. He had left Jean in his suite and so he made for his rooms, thinking, hoping that he would find her there. If not he would comb every inch of the castle from the battlements to the gardens in search of her, and give no thought to the possible reprisals should they be found out together. Their very future seemed to hang in the balance, and the minor gossip of castle servants held no particular threat, given the greater challenges they faced. Let the people whisper, he thought, for it made no difference now.

He flung open the door to his suite but found it empty; the moment he stepped into the parlor he knew that Jean had gone, for he could not feel her presence in that place, and silence hung still and deadly in the air. Still, though, he searched for her, glanced into the bedroom and the lav before stepping into his office. He stood for a time looking at the room, wondering how it was that such a short while before he had been sitting in the chair by his desk with Jean upon his lap, his heart light and full of joy; how could it be, he wondered, that such joy could so quickly be turned to devastation?

He turned then, intending to leave that place, intending to journey next to Jean's room, but he stopped at once for there was a folded piece of parchment propped up on his desk, the words _Your Majesty _written on it in neat, looping letters.

Dread filled him at the sight of that note, left him trembling where he stood. _What fresh hell is this, _he wondered, staring at those foreboding letters, that portent of doom. Had she left it for him when he went to speak to Patrick, some note filled with hope and thoughts of love? Had it been left by Jean at all, or was there some other madness afoot? No one had access to his rooms save for Peter and the unlucky maid who had recently been assigned to clean up after him, and somehow he did not think that either of those young people would have cause to leave such a message for him.

He approached the desk as a man heading for the gallows, terrified and yet unable to veer from his course. He lifted the paper and unfolded it, and began to read.

_Your Majesty, _it said. _I hope you will forgive me for not telling you this in person, but I fear that if I were to see your face you would try to change my mind. We cannot afford the luxury of choice, just now. One of us must see reason, and I fear that you will not. The news that Sir Patrick has brought to you is true, and I see now that it was selfish of me to claim you for my own. You deserve more than I can give you. Know that I love you, with all my heart, and it is because I love you that I must go. You must do what is best for the kingdom, and I have no role to play in your future. It was a dream, Lucien, but I dream I will remember fondly for all the rest of my days. Be the king you were meant to be, the king I know you can be, and serve your people well. Do not look for me; please, spare us both that grief. You will find joy again, in time. _

At the bottom of the page she had signed simply _Jean,_ and as he stood with that paper in his trembling hands tears began to gather in the corner of his eyes. Somehow, though he could not say how, she had learned the details of his meeting with Sir Patrick; had the PM sent someone to speak to her quietly, to send her from his side before he had the chance to ruin himself? It seemed the sort of thing Patrick might do, to keep him occupied while he gave Jean the chance to flee. And flee she had, taking all of his hope with her.

_I have to find her, _he thought then, and recklessly he ran from that place, the paper drifting out of his hand to land silent and damning upon the floor. Heedless of propriety or the scene he might be making he raced towards Jean's room, but when he reached it he found the door unlocked, and no sign of his beloved. The room was neat and tidy as ever, but as he looked around he found that the dressertop was bare, now, uncluttered by any photographs or pots of face cream or delicate vials of perfume. Her white shawl was not hanging on its hook by the door, and there was no book resting on the bedside table. Fear clenched his heart in an icy fist, then. If she meant to leave him it would seem she was already well on her way, and he was not certain he could stop her, not now.

Cursing he ran from that place, dashed down the stairs, and as he neared the bottom he saw her, his darling Jean, wearing the same navy dress he'd seen her in last with a travelling case in her hand. She was marching resolutely across the foyer, and had very nearly reached the front doors. _It's not too late, _he thought as he caught sight of her; she had only just packed her things, and perhaps there was time, yet, time for him to dissuade her, to keep her with him, to find some way through the labyrinth before them.

"Jean!" he called out desperately. "Jean!"

Her steps faltered for a moment, her shoulders sagging as if in defeat, and he dashed forward, desperate to reach her. If only she would stop, if only he could reach out and touch her, perhaps her resolve might waver, perhaps she might see how desperately he loved her, and change her mind. But fate was against him; she did not stop entirely, instead seeming to find some inner well of resolve. Her posture straightened, and she continued on her way. The door opened at the touch of her hand, and Lucien was not close enough to reach her before it closed behind her.

He came to a stop there at the closed door, but did not go through it. In grief he raised his hand, and pressed his palm flat to the door. More than once he had told her that he would not ask of her more than she was willing to give, that if she did not want him he would let her go in peace. If only she had stopped completely, waited for him, looked back, given him some sign that she was not as dedicated to her present course as her note implied then he might have taken the chance, but she had done no such thing. After so much uncertainty it seemed she had made her choice, and if he were to follow her now he would only break every promise he had ever made to her, and doom her to a life not of her choosing. She knew, now, what it would cost her to join her life to his, and knowing this she had chosen to leave him. The thing was done; _do not look for me, _she'd said, and he loved her too much to ignore her final request of him.

The adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins from the moment Sir Patrick showed him the article left him suddenly, and he collapsed wearily against the door, his forehead pressed to the cold steel that separated him from his beloved. Even now she would be marching across the long winding drive toward the gate, leaving her home, her very life behind for the sake of his reputation, for the future of their country. _I do not deserve her, _he thought, for Jean had done what he could not, had seen the right course and taken it. She was too good for him, he thought then, and deserved better than the public scorn and devastation that he would heap upon her.

_I have been blind,_ he thought. All his life Lucien had known his birthright to be a death sentence, a burden that would strip him of his very identity, and make him afresh in the image of a king. He had run from that damnation, as far and as fast as he could, but duty had called him home, and sunk its teeth into him. For months he had been behaving as if he believed himself above the rules that dictated his life, dashing off to China and wooing his housekeeper and filling her head with dreams, but Jean had seen the right of it. The crown had claimed him for its own, and a king could not serve two mistresses. He could love his kingdom, or he could love Jean, but he could not love them both. And Jean, beautiful, brilliant Jean, had known this, and released her hold on him at last.

Though he wished, with all his heart, that he could be simply a man, simply _Lucien, _that he could come and go as he pleased and love where he willed and give no thought to what others might say, he knew now that such freedom would never be his to enjoy. _Time won't change who we are, _she'd told him once, and he saw now that she was right. Nothing and no one could change his fate, and at last he faced that truth, and began to accept it with bitterness in his heart.


	38. Chapter 38

_21 June 1959_

"And just what the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?" Matthew grumbled as he came limping into view, leaning heavily on his cane and frowning at him in the darkness.

"Can't a man enjoy his own back garden in peace?" Lucien answered. There was a mostly empty bottle of whiskey sitting upright in the grass at his feet, and a completely empty one in his suite inside the castle, and all in all Lucien was feeling quite fine. Oh, the world tilted at strange angles if he moved his head too quickly and he could feel the words jumbling in his mouth, not quite coming out the way he intended, but he was sure that Matthew would get the point. He was a clever man, Matthew Lawson. After all, he had seen what Lucien could not, had tried to warn him-

_No,_ he told himself, jerking his thoughts back from that piece of darkness. The whole point of the whiskey, after all, was that it helped him to forget. The whiskey set music to playing in his head, and brought a smile to his lips, and when he'd had enough it sent him off to bed untroubled by dreams. It was the dreams Lucien hated, more than anything about his waking life; in the dreams the grief came for him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"A man can. A king can't be mucking around in the middle of the night doing god knows what with a hammer."

"That's a fine whiskey," Lucien said, ignoring his friend's words completely and pointing to the bottle. "You should have some. Hardly seems fair, to leave me to drink on my own."

"Your Majesty," Matthew sighed, but he did come closer, and bent, somewhat awkwardly, to retrieve the bottle. That made Lucien smile; he did so hate to drink alone, and Matthew was fine company.

"Do you remember, Matthew," he asked, leaning up against the workbench beside him, grateful for its support as the world spun and shimmered around him. "Do you remember that summer, before I went off to university, when that girl, oh what was her name, the ginger one, you remember, she used to…" why was he having so much trouble finding the words? He could see it so clearly in his mind, could see himself and Matthew as they had been, then, eighteen and wild, with the whole castle at their disposal. They used to take bottles from the drinks cart in Lucien's room, and come down to the gardens, used to wander among the hedges, and sometimes that girl, that ginger girl, would join them, and she would smile at Matthew so prettily, and sometimes she brought a friend along and _oh…_

"We used to have fun, remember?"

"That was a long time ago, sir," Matthew told him, not unkindly. He'd rescued the bottle of whiskey but he wasn't drinking, and Lucien didn't like that, not one bit. If they were both going to enjoy themselves, he couldn't be the only one who was too far gone in drink.

"Whatever happened to her, the ginger girl? Where did she go?"

_Why do they always leave, _he wondered then; _why is everyone else free to come and go as they please, and I'm stuck here, trapped, wasted, why do they always leave, why does everything I touch seem to shatter in my hands?_

"I'll have some of that, if you aren't going to drink it," he added before Matthew could answer his question, reaching for the bottle. Matthew didn't stop him.

"Her name was Anna," Matthew told him, while Lucien fumbled with the cap. "And she stayed on here, for a while. And then she left."

"Where'd she go?" Lucien asked, and took a long swig of the whiskey.

"She fell in with someone else. Moved out to the country. Never saw her again."

"You liked her, though, didn't you, Matthew? You liked her." _I bet you would have married her, given half the chance. I bet you loved her, and she left you, and what a pair we make, eh, Matthew?_

There was pity on Matthew's face, and Lucien did not like that, not one bit. If they were going to talk about the old times, if they were going to laugh, if Matthew had come to help him in his endeavor then he would welcome his old friend's company, but if all the man intended to do was stand there feeling sorry for him then Lucien would be glad to see the back of him.

"What are you doing out here, sir?" Matthew asked him then.

It was very late; the grounds were all in darkness, though lights glittered in the windows of the castle high above them. There was a tall, broad stone wall encircling the castle and its grounds, and it shielded them from view of the city beyond. They were alone, there in the deep green grass, among the winding paths and hedgerows and flowers, there among the perfectly manicured trees and the artificial ponds stocked with exotic fish. Alone, on a summer's night, and wasn't that said, Lucien thought, that they should be alone, that no ginger-haired girls were laughing beside them in the silence.

"I'm building a glasshouse," he said, gesturing somewhat unsteadily to the edifice behind him. The frame was mostly complete, now, but they were taking too bloody long about it, and Lucien had been bored and at a loose end with himself cooped up there in the castle; it had seemed only natural that he spend his time in some more constructive endeavor. The thought drifted through his mind and he laughed at his own cleverness. _Constructive indeed_.

"You've got people to do that for you, sir," Matthew told him, and Lucien whirled on his friend, dizzy and hurt.

"It's my bloody house," he snapped, "and if I want to build something with my own bloody hands I bloody well can." _Can't he see,_ Lucien wondered, _everything I touch turns to ruin. If I can only just...if I can just make something, something I can see, something I can touch, something that doesn't fall to pieces, maybe I'll be all right, in the end. _

"What possessed you to commission this thing in the first place? Do the gardeners not have enough work to do as it is?"

"I promised Jean," Lucien said then, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had come on, replaced only by the sort of sorrow he'd set out to drown. "I promised Jean I'd build her a glasshouse." _So she could fill it with beautiful things, so she could grow something with her own two hands, so she could be happy. I promised._

"She isn't coming back, sir," Matthew told him, and there was regret in his voice when he spoke.

"I know," Lucien said, and suddenly he found his legs did not want to hold him; he settled down right there on the grass, staring up at Matthew and the pitch black sky above him. "I know she isn't coming back."

No, Jean was not ever coming back. It had been a fortnight, and she had sent no word to him, and her little room had been emptied of the last of her things, and stood vacant now. Lucien suspected she had prevailed upon her nephew to deliver her belongings now that she was settled, and though he knew that if he pressed Danny hard enough he could find out where Jean was staying, but he had done no such thing; Jean had made her choice, and she had told him _don't look for me. _

So he did not look for her, but he still found her everywhere he went. He carried her in his heart, the memory of her soft voice, her gentle hands, her cleverness, her brilliant smiles. Every inch of the castle reminded him of her, and even now when he sought to banish her from his thoughts she had found him; had he not come here of his own choosing, to hammer a few boards and help to bring the vision of the glasshouse he'd promised her to life? She would not ever see it, would not ever walk among the trestle tables and tend to the flowers inside with her own hands, but she would be there, he knew, every time he returned to this place. It would be a mausoleum, of sorts, for a woman not yet dead but still lost to him, forever, a place where he could mourn her memory, and the memory of the love that could have been.

"You were right, Matthew, and I was a bloody fool," Lucien said softly.

Above him Matthew folded his hands over his cane, and leaned down to answer him. "No, sir," he said softly. "You were not a fool. You just...you wanted something that could not ever be."

"It's been that way my whole life," Lucien told him ruefully. "I wanted Mei Lin, I wanted our daughter, I wanted our house in Singapore and a quiet life far away from here. And I haven't got any of it, have I? I tell you, Matthew, I'd give up the crown right this moment, if I could, after all the trouble it's brought me."

"You could, but you won't," Matthew said, knowing already all the many reasons why Lucien remained in the castle, all the many reasons why he would never leave it.

"No," Lucien agreed. "I won't."

"I am sorry, for what it's worth," Matthew told him then. "Jean is...she's a fine woman. She's been a friend to me, over the years. I know she didn't want to leave you, any more than you wanted her to go."

"It doesn't matter what we want, does it, Matthew? What's done is done."

"What's done is done," Matthew agreed.

The joviality that had carried him out of the castle and down to the gardens had well and truly left him now, and Lucien saw no point in staying. His head was heavy and the bottle was empty - it had tumbled from his grip when he settled on the ground, and leaked its meager contents into the grass - and the time had come, he supposed, to seek his bed, and see what dreams might come to him in the darkness.

"Right," he said, flinging his hands out to give himself some leverage, straining and struggling to pull himself upright. Matthew held himself steady with his cane and reached out to offer Lucien some assistance, and between them they managed to get him onto his feet.

"Time for bed," Lucien said.

"Yes," Matthew agreed, and together they set a meandering course for the lights of the castle. Maybe the dreams would come for him tonight, dreams of bullets and fires and the lash of his captors' whip, dreams of his father's disapproving face, his mother's soft voice lifted in song, dreams of the curve of Jean's hip. Maybe they would come for him, and leave him weeping in the darkness, or maybe, just maybe, the whiskey would do its job, and let him sleep.

* * *

It was a clear night, a warm night, and Jean stood alone in her back garden, staring up at the stars. Out here in the countryside she could actually see them; they were not veiled by the bright lights of the castle, by the city beyond. Out here she could hear only the trilling of crickets, the occasional rumble of a car rolling down the high street; there was no stomp of a guard's boot, no laughter from a room where women had gathered to share a nightcap before bed, no handsome man waiting for her in the darkness.

Despite the warmth of the night Jean shivered, and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

Everything had come together, shockingly quickly. This little town was an hour's drive away from the city where her king slept, a town big enough to boast three pubs and two petrol stations and a bookstore, and yet small enough that everybody seemed to know everybody else. This little town was where her sister Eadie lived, and it was Eadie who had given Jean shelter when she'd fled her home, Eadie who'd helped Jean find employment at one of the town's pubs, Eadie who'd helped her find this little cottage to rent and arranged for Danny to drive her things out from the city. Had it not been for her sister Jean wasn't sure what would have become of her, but Eadie had just smiled and said _that's what family is for, Jean. _And no doubt she was right; when all else failed she had her family, still, young Christopher's letters and the promise that she'd see him this year for Christmas, Danny's easy smiles and Eadie's unquestioning support.

Yes, she had her family, and her home, now, a new home but one she thought she might grow to love, in time. Its previous occupant had died and his children had not wanted to sell their family home, but they likewise had not wanted to live there, and Jean had arrived just in time to solve all of their problems. It had two bedrooms, and a rather lovely bathroom, a brightly lit kitchen and a lovely little parlor, and best of all it had a garden, protected by a high wooden fence. _You can do what you like back there, _the landlord had told her, _just keep it neat. _

She stared around her now, trying to decide what to plant, how she would make this place her home. Flowers along the fence line, she thought, and perhaps a tree for shade, and perhaps a little bench under the tree, so she could sit outside and read when the weather was fine. There was room enough for a small vegetable patch, even; it would be nice, she thought, to grow something with her own hands again.

But though settling her things into this house and making plans for the garden had offered her some piece of hope, her heart sat heavy in her chest, and sleep would not come to her. Though Eadie had jumped at the chance to help her Jean could not confess the truth to her sister, could not speak of her turmoil to anyone at all, lest the truth come out and ruin them both. She had run away from everything she ever wanted, the dearest longing of her heart, in order to protect her king, and she could not risk the damage to his reputation now, not after the sacrifice she had made in leaving him behind. It had cost her much too dearly for her to be reckless now.

_Are you there, my Lucien? _She wondered, staring up at the stars. On a night like this, warm and clear, he would have come to her on the battlements, and they would have spoken softly to one another, might even have shared a dance, a kiss, a tender embrace; on a night like this, he would have been beside her. The thought pierced her heart as sharply as any blade; _oh, my Lucien, _she thought, _you must know this is not what I wanted. _

What she wanted was _him,_ his strong arms, his warm eyes, his deep voice, wanted to take his love and return it to him a hundredfold, wanted to fall asleep safe and sheltered and beside him. But fate had been cruel to them, and sent her far from his side. Perhaps in time this grief would lessen, but as Jean stood alone in the darkness tears overwhelmed her, and alone and in silence she let them.


	39. Chapter 39

_14 July 1959_

It was early afternoon, and Jean was in the pub kitchen, where she'd been for most of the day. Some of the lads in town came round in the morning on their way to work, for coffee and scones or a nip of something stronger if their heads were still pounding from the night before, and more of them came round for lunch, looking for a pint and a pie if one was to be had, and soon they'd come looking for supper, stew and bread and as many pints as John the barkeep could pour them before closing time at 6:00. Life in the pub was hectic; there were semi-permanent lodgers who rented rooms upstairs for months on end, and occasional guests who stopped over for a night or two, and every single man and young couple in town seemed to find their way to the pub in the evenings. It was a busy life, but Jean was grateful for the fast pace, grateful for the tasks that kept her hands occupied most every minute of the day, for the endless stream of voices, the laughter of the patrons and the employees of the pub, the noise of the wireless. She was grateful for it, for when the pub closed its doors in the evening she made her way alone to her little cottage and found only silence there, a still, echoing silence in which she could not hide from the sorrow in her own heart.

She was just setting a tray of bread in the oven when the sound of footsteps rang out behind her, and as she straightened up she turned and found John watching at her, a mischievous smile on his face. John owned the pub, like his father before him, but his sons were not interested in the family business, and after his wife died he had been in desperate need of some help in the kitchen. Jean had answered that call, being in desperate need of job, and they had got on well together, had over the course of a month grown somewhat accustomed to one another. John was a jovial, joking sort, which served him well in his line of business, and though he was of an age with Jean and not bad to look at his recent bereavement left him utterly uninterested in romance, which suited Jean just fine. Perhaps in time that might change, but she rather thought not; they had both suffered too much at the hands of love to go looking for it again, and were quite content to be simply friends.

"Some bloke's come looking for you, Mrs. Beazley," John said, leaning in the doorway and grinning at her slyly. Jean's heart sank in her chest; she had not made friends with any of the men in town - nor did she intend to - and her boys were far from her side, and Danny was the only person from her old life who knew where she'd gone, and it seemed unlikely that he would have been able to leave his post in the middle of a working day just to come and see his aunt. If a man had come looking for her..._oh, please, _she thought, _please, don't let him find me. _Jean wasn't sure she could bear it, to have to pull away from her king a second time. She had thought, before now, that this town was far enough away, but Lucien was the _king, _and she supposed there was no corner of the kingdom where his hands could not reach.

"I've got work to do," she said a bit primly, turning away, but John wouldn't hear it.

"Come now, Jean, you've been on your feet all day. There's no customers right now. Go and have a rest. He looks like a nice bloke."

Though there was a twinkle in his eye that spoke of mischief Jean could tell that John meant well, that no doubt he thought this fellow who'd come to call was more than just a friend or distant relation; perhaps he had noticed just how lonesome his new cook was, and wanted to do whatever he could to bring a smile to her face. Whatever the reason Jean could tell he would not let the subject drop, and if she were to have any peace she would have to do as he said.

"All right, then," she agreed reluctantly, "I suppose I could do with a break."

"There's a good girl," John said, smiling. No one had called Jean _girl _for quite a long time; life in the castle did not allow for such familiarties. She knew he meant nothing untoward, however, knew he was only fond of her, and she tried not to take offense. Town life was _different; _people had more mundane things to worry about than the future of the country or the safety of the king. They went to dances at the parish hall and drank in the pub on Fridays and grumbled about their wages, and they loved their neighbors, and looked out for one another. It was not such a bad way to live, she thought, and as the days slipped by she was growing used to the gentleness of such a life.

She wiped her hands clean on her apron before she pulled it off and set it to the side, and then she marched from the kitchen with John hot on her heels, dread and curiosity nipping at her. Who could it be, she wondered, and what did they want with her? Maybe it was Jack, she tried to tell herself, maybe her wayward boy had come looking for her, and she could hold him close and see for herself that he was well; she would have liked that, very much.

As she stepped into the dining room it was not Jack she found, nor was it her king, come to beg her to return. To her very great surprise it was Matthew Lawson waiting for her, dressed in a plain black suit and leaning heavily on his cane, though he straightened slightly when he caught sight of her.

"Matthew!" she said, confused but not entirely unhappy to see him. "What a lovely surprise."

As she came to stand beside him Jean went up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against his cheek. No doubt that would give John reason to tease her for weeks on end, the gaunt faced man in his smartly pressed suit who had come searching for her, whose cheek she kissed; no doubt she would not hear the end of John's well-intentioned questions, but in the moment she was too delighted to see a friendly face to worry about the consequences.

"Jean," Matthew said, giving her a tight little smile. "You're looking well."

"Go and have a seat, you two," John called out from behind the bar. "I'll bring you something to drink. Sherry for the lady and a pint for the fella, eh?"

"Just tea," Jean scolded him, though she was already leading Matthew towards one of the booths in the corner of the empty pub. "It is the middle of the day."

"Tea for the lady and a pint for me, thank you," Matthew called. That made John smile; _oh dear, _Jean thought in dismay, _I hope he doesn't go getting any ideas._

"Now then, Matthew, what's this about?" Jean asked him as they settled into the booth. Matthew grimaced as he bent his bad leg but then he found the room to straighten it out, and the pained expression faded from his face. There had been a riot in the capital some months before Lucien's arrival, a row between anti-monarchists and their more traditional counterparts, and Matthew had been badly wounded. He'd already been named head of the castle guard by then, and though his injury meant he could no longer work as he had done the old king had seen fit to keep him on, as thanks for his many years of tireless service and his bravery on that particular day. Though Jean was glad of it, though she knew that Matthew was happy in his work and likely could not imagine any other life for himself, she did sometimes wonder if perhaps it might be best for him to take early retirement, and nurse his leg in peace, far from the dangers that came with proximity to the crown. Though they were friends she hardly felt it was her place to say such a thing, however, and so she kept her thoughts to herself.

"Can't a man stop in to say hello to an old friend?" Matthew asked with a lopsided little smile.

John chose that moment to arrive with a tray laden down with teapot and cup and saucer and a pint, and he took his time laying the things out on the table, grinning at Jean all the while.

"You just give a shout if you need me," he said when he was finished, though he loitered by the table, watching the pair of them expectantly.

Jean thanked him, but did not speak again until he was out of sight; whatever course their conversation was about to take, she did not want John to hear a word of it.

"Matthew," she started to say, but he cut her off at once.

"I just wanted to see how you were getting on. Didn't think you'd be in a place like this. I would have thought you'd get work as a housekeeper somewhere, given your history."

While he spoke Jean poured herself a cup of tea, and she took a sip before answering him carefully.

"I like the work," she told him honestly, "And John doesn't ask questions. If I applied to be a housekeeper the family would want to check my references."

"And if they did that, they'd find out where you came from," he said slowly. He had almost caught her meaning, but not quite, and so Jean was forced to continue.

"Yes, and if they spoke to someone in the castle-"

"Then there's a chance that the king might find out where you are."

"Yes," Jean answered softly, refusing to look at him. _Yes, _if some potential employer spoke to the housekeeping staff about her word would spread like wildfire, and nothing remained secret in the castle for long.

"Your secret is safe, for now," Matthew told her. "I made Danny tell me where to find you but he's a good lad. He hasn't told anyone else. And neither will I, if you don't want me to."

"Thank you, Matthew. I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself." _I couldn't bear it, _she thought, _to see his face, to hear his voice. Even a letter would break me clean in two._ "How is...how is he?" There was no point in pretending she was not worried about her king; she fell asleep most every night with thoughts of him swirling through her mind, terrible questions looming through the darkness to keep her from her dreams. Was he angry with her, was he hurt, was he making trouble for himself, had he already set his sights on someone else? No matter how much it might wound her Jean desperately wanted to know what had become of her Lucien, and she imagined that Matthew hadn't come all this way just to talk about her new position.

"Not well, if I'm honest. Drinks himself into a stupor most every night, terrorizes the staff. So far he's keeping on top of his work, but we're trying to keep him away from public appearances, at least until he settles down a bit. You really did a number on him, Jean."

"That's not fair, Matthew, and you know it," she said, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. It grieved her more than she could say, that he should think her so cruel, so unfeeling. Surely, she thought, he ought to know her better than that. "I didn't want to leave."

"Then why did you? He was determined to sort something out. What changed?"

"I saw reason," she told him sadly. "Matthew, he can't marry me. If it were to become public knowledge that he'd been carrying on with his housekeeper, if they'd found out about Jack...he would have been ruined."

"I'm sorry, Jean, I'd forgotten about Jack."

_There's more you don't know, _she thought miserably, but she did not tell him. Matthew had been there through it all, Jack's youthful indiscretions with the maids, his drinking, the incident with the gun; likely Matthew knew even more about the trouble Jack had gotten into than Jean did herself, and it seemed he found that reason enough for her to leave. It would not be necessary, she thought, to tell him of her own indiscretions, and she reminded herself to be grateful for small mercies.

"He needs a young, noble wife who can give him children and make him proud. I can't do any of those things for him. It's best for both of us that I stay away."

_The best way to resist temptation is to remove it, _that's what the castle priest had told her, and Jean had done just that, much to her own sorrow.

"I don't think he sees it that way," Matthew said, not unkindly.

"No," Jean agreed, "I know he doesn't. That's why I had to go. And things aren't so bad here. My sister is here, and the work keeps me busy, and I have a beautiful little garden."

Matthew watched her for a moment over the rim of his glass, as if considering her words, trying to find fault with them, though she knew he wouldn't.

"That's good, then, I suppose," he said, and took a long sip of his beer.

"You are looking out for him, aren't you, Matthew?" If Jean could not look after her king herself, she supposed Matthew was the next best thing; they had been friends in their youth, the pair of them, and Lucien always seemed to listen to Matthew, even when he wouldn't hear anyone else.

"I do what I can. You know what he's like. He always has to have his way. But it hasn't been so very long. Perhaps he'll settle down, eventually."

"I hope so. I just want him to be happy."

"Right now you're both miserable, though. It makes my teeth itch."

Jean laughed, a bit wetly, and scrubbed at her cheeks. For the most part she'd kept the tears at bay, and she found that the tea and the soft sound of Matthew's voice helped to settle her nerves.

"You're determined not to come back, then?"

"I've made up my mind, Matthew. It's for the best." _Perhaps if I say it often enough, _she thought, _I might start to believe it. _

"All right, then. I'll not try to convince you otherwise."

"But you will come and see me again? It's nice to see a familiar face."

"I wouldn't want to cause you any trouble," Matthew answered, nodding to the kitchen door John had disappeared behind, the door he was no doubt leaning up against now, straining to hear every word of their conversation.

"You won't," Jean said firmly. "Now, tell me everything. How is Alice getting on?"


	40. Chapter 40

_21 August 1959_

_Strange, _Lucien thought as he wandered among the bright blooms of the glasshouse late one Friday evening, _how beauty and grief can live together, in such harmony with one another. _

The glasshouse was everything that he hoped it would be, sprawling but neat, bursting with all sorts of flowers and greenery, a few benches scattered throughout and fairy lights strung overhead to bring a touch of whimsy to this place in the darkness. It was tended by gardeners, and that was not as Lucien had intended, but it was beautiful, and his, for no one else walked in this place save for the men who tended the plants and their king, who was heartsick and weary.

Perhaps it was foolish, in hindsight, to build such a physical reminder of his loss, but Lucien had acted impulsively when he ordered its construction, and now that it was done he found himself grateful for it. There was no grave where he could visit his late wife's remains, and there was no way for him to speak to Jean. He found no peace in the castle chapel, and the battlements echoed with the whispered voices of remembered conversations when his steps led him there. Here in the glasshouse he felt at times almost as if Jean walked beside him, but her feet had never followed this path, and the melancholy was softer here, less unbearable. He could soak in sorrow in this place, far from prying eyes, and while perhaps it was not healthy to revisit his heartbreak again and again he took a certain comfort from it. Here was a grief he could name, an ending made complete; unlike the years he'd spent searching for Mei Lin with no success, he knew that Jean had gone, knew he would not see her again, and he tried to remind himself that perhaps there was grace, in such certainty. She had told him so, once; _it was not easier,_ she'd said, _but it helped. _

His father had not felt the need for such communion with a love taken too soon; the moment Queen Genevieve died her private quarters were sealed, and no one, not her husband or her son or any of the industrious castle servants, had set foot in that place again. Before Jean left him Lucien had entertained thoughts of installing her there; he recalled his mother's rooms with their wide windows, their high vaulted ceilings, their soft pink wallpaper and their multitude of paintings, as a place of beauty and restoration, and he believed if anyone could have breathed life into them again it would have been Jean. But Jean was gone, now, and the Queen's rooms remained closed.

And yet life soldiered on. Though he had lost himself in drink the moment Jean left he had over the last few weeks been gradually imbibing less and less; he would never, could never stop entirely, but he had a kingdom to run. It was for the sake of that kingdom that Lucien had given up the freedom of his old life, for the sake of that kingdom that Jean had left him all alone. If it all turned to ashes in his hands those sacrifices would have been for nothing, and so he was trying, once more, to do his best. Love had left him, but the work remained, and so it was to the work he turned, most every minute of every waking hour.

The harvest festival was coming; every year in September the castle hosted the best and the brightest of the kingdom's elite for a day among the gardens. It was a dignified affair, hardly the sort of thing happening in towns and villages across the kingdom at that time of year, but the scope of the celebration was massive. Lady Ann - _Joy, _as she insisted he call her - had been brought in to assist with the preparations, though as far as Lucien knew she had no more expertise in planning a royal event than Lucien did himself. She had, at the request of the Earl Marshal and with the blessing of Sir Patrick, been installed in the castle for the duration; in itself that was not so very unusual, for all sorts of court functionaries resided in the castle for all sorts of reasons. And yet Lucien knew that Joy had not moved into his home for the sake of convenience, or at least not for sake of the harvest festival. Sir Patrick had been behind it, of that he had no doubt, had placed the woman he viewed most likely to capture the king's affections directly under Lucien's nose in a not so subtle attempt to move things along.

Sir Patrick had engineered the whole thing quite neatly, as it happened. Giving Joy a role in the preparations for the festival was a test of sorts, to see how she handled the administrative side of things. Every decision she made was one ordinarily given over to the Queen, and in assuming that position for herself she had been positioned in front of the entire court as a likely candidate to sit at their king's right hand. As the days passed Sir Patrick would be able to see how she functioned amongst society, whether she had the dignity and the self-restraint a good Queen required. And, of course, she was seated beside Lucien every evening for supper, and they often found themselves alone together in the evenings. Lucien was beginning to feel as if the decision had already been made, and Sir Patrick was just waiting for him to come around to the idea.

The truly horrible thing was, Lucien did feel as if he were warming to it. Joy was fine company - a bit too enamored with herself and a bit overly concerned with appearances and a bit of a snob, truth be told, but he could actually hold a conversation with her, unlike so many of the other ladies he'd been introduced to in the last year. She was quite pretty, and young enough to bear him heirs while not yet so young as to be utterly inappropriate a match for him. If he had to marry a noble lady she was not the worst of them, and the Christmas season was not far off. Patrick would love that, Lucien thought, an engagement announced just in time for the holidays, a wedding at Christmas the following year. The people would like it, too, no doubt, the romance of a royal wedding at Christmas just cliched enough to capture the hearts of the masses. And in a year, when the time came to actually get down to the business of marriage, perhaps his heart would not be quite so heavy. In a year, perhaps his dreams of Jean would have faded, and he could content himself with what he had.

Though marriage held no appeal for him fatherhood certainly did; he was certain now that he would never love Joy as a man ought to love his wife, but he knew he could love a child. From the moment of her birth Li had been the best and brightest piece of his life, and though his heart rejoiced to know that she was safe and well she was far from his side, and not likely ever to come home to him. Another child he could hold, sing to, play with, a child he could watch grow from infancy to adulthood in security and peace, that would be a gift. A child would occupy his idle moments, and bring a smile to him when all happiness seemed to have left him. It would not be such a terrible thing, he thought, to be a father again.

"I thought I might find you here," a soft voice called through the darkness, and he whirled to find Joy walking towards him along the gravel path. It was a warm night and she wore a pale blue dress with sleeves that left most of her arms bare, cut in the latest fashion. She looked rather lovely, but Lucien felt no relief at the sight of her. If anything a strange, bitter sort of anger began to grow in his heart; it had been Jean, once, who spoke those words to him, and it was Jean, and not Joy, for whom the glasshouse had been built. It did not seem right, somehow, to see Joy in this place that was meant for another.

"Did you need something?" he asked, trying to be civil. Though the anger simmered and swirled through him he tried to bite it back, for Joy did not know she was trespassing, and it would be unkind to lash out at her now, when she had no idea of the pain it caused him to see her walking where Jean should have been.

"I wanted to ask you about the Rose Queen. For the festival," she explained. As she reached him she leaned idly against one of the long trestle tables, her arms crossed over her chest and her hips cocked toward him invitingly. "Ordinarily the actual Queen places the crown on the Rose Queen's head and welcomes her to court. Sir Patrick thought I might do that this year."

"Ah," Lucien said. Of course, the bloody Rose Queen; each little village would choose their own for their harvest festivities, and the castle would be no different. Several likely girls would be chosen for the Rose Court, and the most popular among them would be elected their Queen, given a crown of roses by the actual Queen and placed in a position of honor leading the Rose Parade through the city streets.

Lucien did not give a damn about the bloody Rose Queen.

"Whatever Sir Patrick thinks is best." _He's deciding everything else these days, _he thought, but wisely kept those words to himself.

"I think it gives a certain impression, having me do it," she said, watching him through narrowed eyes. "Everyone will assume that my involvement indicates an announcement is coming. I wouldn't want to stand up in front of the court acting in the place of the Queen without some sort of assurances."

"Assurances?" Lucien repeated. He'd only had three glasses of whiskey before he'd come down to the glasshouse, but it was enough to make keeping a rein on his emotions difficult. The very idea of Joy accosting him here, of all places, to make demands of him, putting him on the spot and insisting he confirm his intention to marry her, was appalling to him. Before this moment he had thought that neither of them was in any particular rush to make an _announcement_, but as he looked at Joy now he could see the determination in her eyes, and he realized that perhaps he had misjudged her interest.

"I understand if you want to wait until Christmas for appearance's sake, your Majesty," she said slowly, "but I think that you and I both know which way the wind is blowing. Leaving things as they are may suit you, but I need to know what to expect. If the arrangement between Sir Patrick and my father is agreeable to you I'm happy to go along with it, but if you're just going to change your mind in a month or two I'll take my leave now. I have my reputation to consider, and nothing that happens in the castle remains secret for very long."

Jean had warned him about secrets, once, but it was _his _reputation that concerned her, not her own. They could not have been more different, the woman he loved and the woman he seemed doomed to marry. If it were not for Jean, perhaps Joy's directness and her pragmatism might have delighted him, but now it only stoked the embers of his simmering anger. She did not care about love, or about _him; _Joy was looking out for herself and her future, and no doubt she had no qualms about taking on the privileges and responsibilities of being Queen. And while Lucien knew he could hardly blame her for wanting to secure her own prospects, the sight of her almost turned his stomach. Though perhaps, he thought, that was only the whiskey talking, only the glasshouse making him waspish and vulnerable, and perhaps he might feel differently come morning.

Perhaps he'd been quiet too long; she was watching him, still, hardly blinking, a hawk on the hunt. In the silence she stepped towards him, looked up at him through thick lashes with a determined set to her mouth.

"Everyone knows, your Majesty," she said then. "About your...woman. It comes with the territory, doesn't it? Every king has his mistress. I won't stop you from taking another, if you wish. But we aren't talking about passion here. We're talking about the future of your kingdom and the security of your family. I won't ask you to love me and I won't tell you what to do. But you stand to gain a great deal by marrying me, and you stand to lose just as much if you left me go. I'm not the only one who needs this marriage."

There was a pounding in Lucien's head not entirely caused by whiskey and the lateness of the hour; rage boiled in him as she spoke to him so calmly of their fate. She was saying everything a good Queen might say, knowing that her life was not her own and trying to make the best of the hand she'd been dealt. No doubt she thought she was being quite generous, laying out her terms so plainly. And if it had not been for Jean, if it had not been for the gentleness of her spirit and the depth of the love he bore her, perhaps he would have accepted Joy's terms quite readily. But Jean was not his _woman, _not one affair in a long line of many designed to scratch an itch and no more. Jean had caused the sun to rise on the darkness of his life for the first time since Singapore fell, and to see her so easily disregarded by a woman who did not possess even one ounce of her courage, her compassion, left him full of rage.

"Perhaps I need it less than you think," he told her grimly. "If you want me to make this decision tonight I think you'll be disappointed with my terms. We'll speak later, Joy. When I've made up my mind."

"As you wish, your Majesty," she said, though there was no deference in the honorific; her eyes were hard, and her lips were set in a frown. She curtsied to him shortly, and turned to walk away, but Lucien was not quite finished.

"And whatever decision I make," he told her, "do not ever come here again."

"As you wish," she said again, through clenched teeth. "Though I don't see the purpose of a glasshouse, if no one but you is allowed to enjoy it."

"Joy," he growled; he'd lost all patience, and was set to tell her _exactly_ what he thought of her and her _assurances_, but there was no need. She was already walking away, and he let her, let her go and turned away so that he could stew in silence and solitude on the utter mess his life had become.

It would not do, he knew, to simply cast her aside. An arrangement had been made, however secretive it might be for the moment, and the pieces were all in place. Joy was the most suitable woman in the realm to take his arm, to stand beside him, and he knew that if he rejected her now it would be all but impossible to find someone palatable. She was educated and strong-minded, not afraid to challenge him, and though the latter of those qualities had riled him this evening he knew he would prefer a wife with a mind of her own to one who only did as he bid her. Parliament would approve her, and the people would love her, and she would make a good Queen.

But she was not Jean, and for that reason alone Lucien could not bear the sight of her.


	41. Chapter 41

_19 September 1959_

"She looks a treat, don't she?" John asked, leaning over Jean's shoulder as they watched the flickering picture on the television he'd drug out of his office and into the dining room of the pub. Apparently this was a habit of his, when exciting events were broadcast across the kingdom; _brings 'em in, Mrs. Beazley,_ he'd told her. _You should've seen the crowd we had in here for the king's coronation. Ran my kegs dry! _There had been very little Jean could say in response, for she remembered full well where she'd been during that particular event, remembered the pride she'd felt, watching her king stride out of the cathedral, seeing his straight back, his broad shoulders on the little television in the corner of Matthew's office. But she could hardly share her own stories with John; he was a nice man, a good man, had been nothing but kind to her, but he did not know where she'd come from, and she had no intention of telling him.

On this particular Saturday afternoon the story of the day was the Rose Parade. The town had celebrated their own festivities in the morning, and Jean and John had stood together on the pavement, watching the Rose Queen sitting on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, waving to the crowd in her homemade dress with a smile bright as sunlight upon her face. The morning had been a cheerful one, full of merriment, the calling voices of friends and neighbors, children skipping through the streets, and though some degree of excitement still simmered through the pub's patrons Jean found her own delight had fled, now that John had roped her into watch the royal celebration unfolding on the television.

This was the first year the castle's celebration had been broadcast to the masses; Jean had to wonder whether Lucien had played in hand in that change. King or not he was an egalitarian sort of man, and he had spoken to her, more than once, of wanting to open up royal land to the common folk, wanting to share some of the beauty he'd inherited with the people who were under his rule. But then, he did not naturally seek the spotlight, did not particularly enjoy putting himself on display; maybe it hadn't been his choice at all. Maybe it had been _hers._

For there, on the little television screen, Jean saw the Lady Ann, smiling in a beautiful, well-cut dress - though the black-and-white screen gave Jean no indication of its color, she would have bet anything it was blue, and that Lucien's suit was navy - standing on a platform in the middle of the castle gardens, placing a crown of roses on a young lady's head while Lucien looked on, smiling.

There was no denying the symbolism of the moment, what it was intended to convey. For centuries, the true queen had taken that responsibility for herself, had stepped forward and crowned the Rose Queen. It was a tradition, ingrained in the collective consciousness of the kingdom's memory; though only a select few were ever granted access to the castle festivities, even the most common man on the streets of the capital knew what was what. Of course it had been forty years since Queen Genevieve had died, since last there had been a queen to sit beside the king, but the insinuation remained the same. _There is the king, _that's what this image was meant to convey; _see him there, virile and handsome and unmarried. And here comes a young lady of noble birth, beautiful and unmarried herself, to stand beside him and act in the place of the Queen. _

"I'm running a book," John told her in a conspiratorial whisper. "If you want to place a bet, odds are good they announce an engagement by Christmas."

"I'm not a betting woman," Jean told him, and with those words she turned and left him, swept out of the dining room and into the blessed silence of the kitchen. The guests gathered in the pub were mostly interested in drinks at the moment, and there was precious little for her to do, but she could not bear the thought of spending another moment in the same room with that television, with Lady Ann's flickering face mocking her in black and white, surrounded by people who only wanted to conjecture about how soon their king would wed his lovely lady. She did not trust her heart, did not trust that she could keep her grief to herself, if she were forced to remain surrounded by people for another second.

The sight of Lucien's face had lanced through her like a physical ache; Matthew had said he'd been drinking too much, but it had been three months since last she'd seen him, and perhaps in that time the king might have sorted himself out. Perhaps Lady Ann had helped him on that score; he had always enjoyed her company.

_I don't want to dance with her. I only want to dance with you._

How long ago that seemed now, that beautiful night when Lucien had come to her in his finery, held out his hand and twirled her slowly round the kitchen to the scratchy sound of the wireless. How warm her heart had been, then, how full of hope her thoughts. At the time she had believed him; he had come to her, wrapped her in his arms, and stolen all her love for himself. He had told her how Sir Patrick threw Lady Ann into his path, how he did not care one bit for her, but Jean had been gone from the castle for months now. She had closed the door firmly on what could have been, and was this not why she had left him, so that he might be free to pursue another, more worthy woman? So that he might secure his kingdom's future, and leave all thoughts of her behind?

It would seem, she thought, that her plan was working splendidly, but she had not realized, before now, just how much it would _hurt. _To see him with another, to hear others toasting his good fortune, to know that one day, one day very soon, she would seem him standing once more on the steps of the great cathedral, only this time he would have the Lady Ann on his arm, dressed all in white. She had not realized, not until this moment, how much it would grieve her to keep her silence, to stand in a room full of people and not give voice to the ache that wound its way through her chest. _He was mine, once, _she wanted to scream; _it was me he danced with, me he kissed, me he loved, and I let him go, so that you might have your queen, your royal wedding, your happy future. He was mine, and is no longer, and I am lost without him._

A tear slipped past her tight-closed eyes, and then another, there in the silence of the kitchen. _He was mine, once_, she thought, _but I have woken from that dream. _

* * *

"Well, all in all, I think that was a marvelous afternoon," Joy declared, pouring herself a measure of whiskey from his decanter and raising her glass to him in salute. Lucien smiled wanly, and clinked his glass against hers in toast.

"I didn't fall flat on my face and no one took a shot at me, so yes, I'd say it was a success."

Joy laughed, a strange, throaty laugh that was not at all like Jean's, and settled herself on the sofa beside him. They were enjoying a nightcap in his private parlor, as they did every now and again; it was rather nice having someone to talk to, someone to spend his evening hours with, though if Lucien were being honest he would rather share his whiskey with Matthew than with Joy. But it was not Matthew he intended to wed, was not Matthew's finger the royal jeweler had measured to fit a sparkling diamond ring. The wheels were turning; an engagement at Christmas, a wedding the following year, and there was nothing Lucien could do to stop it now. Though he remained rather passive while the machinery of castle life rolled on he had put his foot down on one single matter; he would not give his mother's ring to Joy. She was a fashionable girl, and would no doubt want something more modern, with a bigger stone. That was the reason he'd given the jeweler, at least; the truth was, he had intended to give his mother's ring to Jean, and he could not bear to see it sparkling on Joy's finger instead.

"Oh, you don't give yourself enough credit. You always do a wonderful job with your public appearances."

Lucien lifted his glass to her in a gesture of thanks. "You're too kind."

"And you're too quiet. What on earth are you thinking about?"

She was leaning against his arm, looking up at him with wide, coquettish eyes, and he knew in that moment she wanted him to kiss her, and he knew in that moment that he should. Jean was not ever coming back, and Joy was to be his wife, and there was no reason, really, why he should not enjoy himself with her, why he should not try to build some sort of rapport with her. She could be snobbish and condescending, when the mood struck, could be a bit too preoccupied with status, but she was not such a bad woman, would not make such a bad wife. She would keep separate quarters, once they were wed, and they would live their lives in parallel, if not in harmony. He did not need to love her; he only needed to bed her on occasion, and surely, he thought, that would not be so very difficult.

And yet he did not lean in, did not press his lips to her pretty pout. He did not answer her question, either, for in truth his thoughts were full of Jean. Where was she now, he asked himself; had she participated in a Rose Parade, in some village whose name he'd never heard? Had she chanced by a television, and seen him standing next to Joy, and known at once what it meant? Was she pleased, to know her sacrifice was not in vain, was she troubled, to know that he would soon be promised to another, was she thinking of him at all?

"Your Majesty?" Joy asked him softly when he'd been quiet too long, but he was spared the need to answer by a sudden banging upon the door to his suite.

"Do excuse me," he said, all but vaulting from the sofa, all but running away from Joy and her curious stare. He flung the door open, and on the other side he found Danny, dressed in his uniform and pale-faced as if he'd just had the shock of his life.

"Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty," Danny told him breathlessly. "Only...only you're needed downstairs, at once."

"Of course," Lucien answered. He placed his whiskey glass on a table by the door and followed Danny out into the corridor. Behind him he could hear the soft sound of Joy's footfalls trailing after him, but he paid her no mind. Whatever surprise waited for him downstairs it would likely have nothing at all to do with her, and she would make her way to her own room for the night, to do whatever it was she did when she was not with him.

Danny was not running, as he led the way down the corridor, down the stairs, but he was moving at a fair pace, and Lucien had to hustle to keep up with him. He wanted to ask what was afoot, what had startled Danny so, what was worth interrupting his quiet Saturday evening, but he did not; at the rate they were going, they would be downstairs in a moment, and all would be revealed. Lucien could only hope that it was nothing too devastating, but matters requiring a king's attention after dark were rarely pleasant. Perhaps it was something to do with Korea; Patrick had been making noises about the troubles there in recent days. Or perhaps it was something else; there was a great deal of tension between the Soviets and the Americans, and closer to home there was talk of a miner's strike, but there was always talk of a miner's strike. _Whatever it is, _he thought, _please let it be something that can be dealt with quickly._

As they made their way down the final staircase Lucien caught sight of a strange scene in the castle foyer. Several guards were standing there, hands resting on their sidearms, forming a half-circle around a woman who stood with her back to him. Lucien could see nothing at all of the woman herself, save that she was slender, that she wore a dark coat and her long hair spilled black as night down her back. Matthew was standing with her, talking to her softly, but perhaps he had heard the heavy sound of Lucien's feet upon the stairs; he was no more than halfway down when Matthew said something to the woman and she turned, and Lucien's heart nearly exploded in his chest.

"Li!" he cried out, shocked and overjoyed and terrified all at once. At the sight of her face he began to run, giving no thought to Danny, or to Joy behind him, no thought to the guards or any of the curious eyes that might be watching him. There were precious few people in the world who knew that Li even existed, and of them only Matthew and Lucien were gathered in that place. No doubt it seemed strange to all the people watching, the way he bolted down the stairs and straight towards her, the way she began to weep, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, huge now with child. They could look, and wonder, and think whatever they wished; in that moment Lucien only cared that his daughter was here, waiting for him. He had not ever thought to receive such a gift, and though he did not know what it meant that she should come to him he was so full of love for her that he did not hesitate.

"Papa," she managed to say, her voice choked with tears, but in the next second he had reached her, and wrapped his arms around her. As he crushed her against his chest she began to sob, her shoulders shaking, clinging to him as if she feared her legs would not hold her, and Lucien returned the embrace just as fiercely, overwhelmed at the trust she showed him, letting him hold her like this when the last time they'd seen one another she had been so much more reserved.

"I've been so scared," she managed to whisper to him in Mandarin, and Lucien's heart broke at the sound of those words, the thought of his child afraid and alone. But she was alone no more; she was here, with him, and he would keep her safe. Whatever troubles had brought her to his door he would hear them, and he would do whatever he could to make her happy again, to make sure that she was _safe, _and loved, as she always should have been.

"It's all right," he answered her in her own tongue. "It's all right. You're safe, my darling. I've got you."


	42. Chapter 42

_19 September 1959_

At last Li's tears subsided, and Lucien gently disentangled himself from her, running his hand over her hair and smiling down at her in wonder. He did not know how this miracle had come to pass, and while he was grateful to see her he knew that whatever had brought her to his door must have been a grave calamity indeed. The guards were still watching the scene warily, and though he could not see her he knew that Joy must have been lingering on the stairs behind him, that her curiosity would not allow her to depart until she learned what was afoot. There were eyes everywhere in the castle; likely at least a few maids and underbutlers were watching in the wings, as well. So long as Lucien had an audience, he intended to use it.

"This is my daughter," he announced, turning to face the guards with one hand resting protectively on Li's shoulder. "She is your princess, and the heir to this kingdom. You will treat her with respect. Stand down." As one the guards moved, relaxing their stances and catching their hands behind their backs, rather than resting on their sidearms, and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief.

"I know you've had a long journey," he said to Li softly, in her own tongue. "Do you need to rest, or can we talk now?"

Li sighed and scrubbed at her cheeks before she answered. "I think we should speak now. But I am very tired."

"Too tired for the stairs, I imagine," Lucien said, mostly to himself. There was a comfortable parlor on the lower level where they could retire together, and while they spoke perhaps the servants could prepare one of the guest suites for Li. She was heavily pregnant, and he did not like the thought of her trudging all the way up to the royal quarters in her condition. Matthew had told him once that Thomas had refused to hear of installing an elevator in the castle, but Lucien was beginning to think that would be a fine idea.

"You're dismissed," he said, switching back to his own native language as he addressed the bewildered looking guards. "But I need someone to prepare the best suite we have on this level, and take the Princess's things there. And bring some bloody tea to the blue room." Neither of those tasks were exactly within the guards' purview, but it was to the invisible staff watching from hidden doorways Lucien had spoken, and he heard the scurry of feet in response to his command. The guards turned and departed, Matthew nodding to Lucien in acknowledgement as he herded his men back out onto the grounds.

"This way, my darling," he said to Li, offering her his arm. She took it at once, though her brow furrowed when a young maid appeared and took her heavy rucksack. _Of course, _he realized; she had not understood his command, and did not know why her things were being removed. "It's all right," Lucien assured her, and then they began to make their way - very slowly - across the foyer towards the parlor that was affectionately known as _the blue room. _As they went Lucien looked up towards the stairs just in time to see Joy, her face like a thundercloud, turn and began the ascent towards her own suite. That would be a problem for tomorrow, he decided; all he wanted, in that moment, was to sit somewhere quiet and speak to his daughter, and Joy's ruffled feathers did not concern him in the slightest. She was hardly the only person who had not been informed of the existence of Lucien's daughter, the truth of his first marriage; she was hardly special, in that regard, had hardly been the sole recipient of Lucien's duplicity.

The blue room was aptly named; the walls were painted in a rich royal shade, the soft carpet the pale color of a winter sky. The paintings on the walls accentuated the theme, and so did the upholstery of the plush chairs and sofas scattered about. There was a drinks cart in the corner and though Lucien's hands itched for a glass of whiskey to hold he abstained, knowing that tea was coming, and that it would be best if he kept his head for the conversation that was coming. He guided Li to one of the soft sofas, and she sank into it gratefully, leaning back and closing her eyes for a moment while her hand came to rest on the swell of her belly. While she settled herself Lucien could do no more than stare at her, troubled by her wan expression, the paleness of her face, her dirty shoes and threadbare coat. The weather had turned cool, and the seas were turbulent this time of year; if she had come by boat, which he supposed she must have done, it must have been a terribly unpleasant journey. What could possibly have driven her to such an undertaking, given her condition, given that she'd been rather adamant that she had no intention of leaving China behind?

"You're staring at me," she murmured to him softly, her eyes still closed. Lucien could not help but smile at that; she was a dear girl, and though she was always so careful with her words he had come to learn that she was clever, too. She and Jean would have got on famously, he thought, and the smile died on his lips.

"I'm sorry," he answered, settling himself beside her. They had lapsed once more into Mandarin; he had learned on his previous visit that she retained a little English, but was not comfortable using it, and he did not intend to force her now. "I didn't expect to see you, and now that you're here...I'm so very glad that you're here, Li."

The door opened, then, and a maid entered the room hesitantly, carrying a heavy tray laden with the tea things. She laid it on the low table in front of their sofa with very little fanfare, clearly trying to keep her gaze away from her king and her new princess, though she must have been eaten up with curiosity. She was not the only one; the whole castle was likely buzzing by now, and those whispers would spread beyond these walls by daybreak. The Press Office would have their work cut out for them, issuing releases for the newspapers and trying to decide how best to introduce Li to the kingdom, but all of that must of necessity wait; Lucien did not know why Li had come or how long she intended to stay, and he did not want anyone to get the wrong idea about her presence in the castle, or what it meant for the future of their country.

He thanked the maid and dismissed her kindly, and then set about pouring a cup of tea for Li, and one for himself. The maid could have done that, he supposed, but he wanted, very much, to be alone with his daughter.

"Here we are," he said, handing her a cup, wrapping his hands around his own and settling back against the sofa. "Are you comfortable?"

"Quite," she told him, taking a long sip of tea and seeming to relax as its warmth soothed her. "Your home is beautiful, papa. I knew it would be, but I did not realize…" she smiled ruefully, shook her head and let her dark hair spill over her shoulders. "I knew you were a king, but I did not realize what that meant until now, I think."

"I'm your father, Li," he told her gently. "That's all the matters. The rest of it is just...noise."

She hummed and took another sip of her tea. "I suppose you want to know why I'm here."

Yes, Lucien was quite desperate to hear her story, but he remembered how reticent she had been, and he did not wish to push her now, did not want to make her uncomfortable or damage the fragile bond they'd cultivated between themselves.

"If you feel able -"

"I want to tell you. I've had weeks to think about how I wanted to explain this to you. I'm ready now, papa."

How he loved to hear that word from her, to hear her so plainly acknowledge their connection, to know that whatever trouble had befallen her she had trusted him enough to come to him in her hour of need. It meant everything to him, to have his child with him, to have this chance to be her father once again.

"There is trouble, in China," she began slowly. "You know there is a new president?"

Lucien nodded, and Li took that as a sign that she ought to continue. "There have been many reforms, not all of them for the better. Food is scarce, and many people are dying. Family farms have been taken away, and people have been forced to work in factories. The living conditions in the city…" She trembled as if with some remembered horror, and Lucien's heart constricted at the very idea that his own child could have suffered under such terrible circumstances. "My husband, he did not agree with the government. He began to grow angry. He said that what they were doing was wrong, that it wasn't true communism, that the people ought to retake the country. There was a group of men who shared his beliefs, and they began to plan…a rebellion, I suppose. I begged him not to, I tried to tell him we were going to have a child, that it wasn't safe, but he said...he said he was doing this for our son, so that he would grow up happy, and healthy, so that he would not starve and suffer."

There were tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes, now, and dread was growing deep in Lucien's heart as he realized where this story was going.

"They killed him, papa," she whispered in the stillness that had settled over him. "The government came, and dragged him out of our bed, and they killed him in our home.'

"Oh, _Christ, _Li-"

Lucien reached for her, his tea forgotten on the table, and she did not hesitate; he wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned against him heavily, fighting to keep her tears at bay, though she did not succeed. It was unthinkable, that she could have suffered such horror, when she was so young, when she was carrying a child; Lucien had lost his wife but he had not witnessed her passing, as it seemed that Li had witnessed the loss of her own husband, and he could not begin to imagine the depth of her grief.

"Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry," he told her softly, holding her close, fighting back tears of her own. Though he had longed to have her with him from the moment he learned of her survival Lucien could not bear the thought that they had been reunited under such terrible circumstances. What Li had suffered was the height of cruelty, and his heart was breaking in his chest. The war had ended in the west but death and violence still hung like a pall over the eastern hemisphere, and he cursed it then, the beast of war that had already taken so much from his family, and yet did not seem to be satisfied.

"They would have come for me as well. I think perhaps the only reason they did not was because of you," she told him, pulling away from his embrace and clearly trying to bring her emotions back under control. That made a certain amount of sense, Lucien realized; his clever girl had seen what he had not, that though the government had killed her husband they had hesitated to extend their vengeance to Li not out of compassion or justice, but fear for their own skins. The Chinese government knew who she was, and they knew, too, that her father had ties to every powerful government on the globe. Her death would have lit a spark that could well have blazed into a third world war; it was a terrifying thought.

"I wanted to go to your embassy, but I did not have proof of who I am, and I wasn't sure that they would believe me." And she had reason to be mistrustful of governments; Lucien could hardly fault her for taking a different route to his side. "I booked passage on a ship. It took six weeks to get here. I was very sick; I think the baby does not like the water." Once more her hand was resting on the swell of her belly, and Lucien's eyes gravitated there at once, the thought that she carried his grandchild within her suddenly striking him with full force. One day, one day very soon, she would give birth, would have a baby of her own to hold, to protect, to love, a reminder of her lost love just as Li herself reminded Lucien of Mei Lin every time he looked at her; just the thought of it made his head spin.

"When I got here I realized I did not have the right kind of money, and my English is not so very good. I had to walk. A nice man in a cafe told me where the castle was, but it took me a very long time to find it."

"You walked all the way here from the harbor?" Lucien asked, his throat constricting at the very thought. It must have taken her hours, and her carrying her heavy rucksack all the while; how she had managed it he was not sure, and while he admired her determination he could not help but feel as if he had failed her, somehow, as if there must have been something more he could have done for her.

She smiled at him, a bit thinly. "What other choice did I have?" she asked him softly. "Your guards, they did not believe me when I told them who I was. I think maybe they did not understand me. But then the old one, the one with the cane? He came, and he saw me, and he let me in."

"I shall have to thank him for that," Lucien told her, thinking that he would willingly give Matthew a bloody medal in gratitude for that service; if it were not for Matthew, the guards may well have turned Li away, and Lucien could not bear the thought of what might have happened next.

"I can stay here, can't I, papa? At least until the baby is born? I want to be somewhere safe, when he comes." The question plucked at Lucien's already fraying heart; she looked so scared, so small somehow. She had suffered so much already, had crossed an ocean to find him not knowing what waited for her on the other side, not knowing if he would welcome her, and he resolved himself in that moment to shower her with every ounce of the love he felt for her.

"You can stay here as long as you like," Lucien answered her at once, taking her hand and clinging to it for dear life. "This is your home, Li," he told her earnestly. "You can come and go as you please. I will not ask you to do anything you don't want to do. But I would like, very much, for you to stay with me. I want to meet my grandson."

She smiled at him, and squeezed his hand, and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. His head was still spinning, but for the moment it was enough for him to know that she was here, with him. That she was _safe. _


	43. Chapter 43

_20 September 1959_

"That John's a nice fella," Eadie said archly, taking a sip of coffee and watching Jean like a hawk over the rim of her mug. They were sharing breakfast together, the way they did most every Sunday, before venturing off to church. Ordinarily Jean quite looked forward to their Sunday morning chats, to spending a bit of time alone with her sister - Eadie had been a godsend, had kept Jean company, kept her from moping too much over the months since she'd come to this place. Their husbands were dead, their children out living their own lives, and they had gravitated towards one another, just as they had done during the war while their men were away and the work of maintaining their family farms had fallen squarely on their shoulders. It was strange, Jean thought, how the courses of their lives had run so much the same, despite the difference in their temperaments.

"I'm sure he is," Jean answered, refusing to look her sister in the eye. Yes, John was a nice man, a very nice man, but he had expressed no interest in being anything more than a friend to Jean, and if he had she would have left the pub at once. They were _friends, _two people who had lost too much to even contemplate romance, and particularly not with one another. But from the very first Eadie seemed to hope for more, for Jean's sake, and she was not content to let the matter lie, no matter how Jean tried to dissuade her.

"Oh, come now, Jeannie," she huffed, "would it kill you to smile, every now and then? I know this isn't where you want to be, but you're here now, aren't you? Why not make the best of it? You don't have to be lonely, if you don't want to be."

That was true enough; John was not the only available man in town, and Jean had firmly closed the door on any possible romance with her king. Lady Ann stood by his side, now, and he had no need of Jean; the thing was done. If Jean did not want to be alone she did not have to be, no more than Lucien was, but what Eadie didn't seem to understand was that Jean much preferred the solitude of her grief to the company of a man, even a nice one. She had been alone with her grief for years before Lucien came along, had armored herself in memories and taken strength from them. _I had my love, _that's what she used to tell herself; _one is enough, for a lifetime. _But then Lucien had come to her, burned holes in her defenses with the touch of his hand, and she had begun to wonder, for the first time in nearly twenty years, if perhaps there was room in her heart for a second love. It was no longer a question, now; she had loved her Christopher, and she had loved Lucien, too, and both those loves had left her cold and lonely. She did not need another.

"I'm fine, Eadie, honestly," she said, waving the very suggestion away with a negligent hand. Eadie frowned as if she did not quite believe her, but she let the subject drop - for now. Jean did not believe for one moment that this was the last time she would find herself on the receiving end of such well-intentioned advice, but peace reigned, for now, and so she sipped her coffee and picked at her breakfast in the wan light of an autumn morning. For now she was content; she could not ask for more.

* * *

"They told me I'd find you here," Joy said as Lucien held the door open for her, as she stepped into his suite with her back ramrod straight and a murderous look in her eyes. "I thought I'd see you at the breakfast table."

"Li isn't feeling well," Lucien answered, though he regretted those words the moment his daughter's name passed his lips, for he knew that it was because of Li that Joy had come to him, that it was the arrival of his daughter that had made his almost-fiance so very cross. "I checked in on her this morning, but she wouldn't eat. I've left her to rest, for now."

"Have you rung for a physician?" Joy asked, and for a moment Lucien could not help but wonder if perhaps all was not lost; there was compassion in the question, if not in the tone in which it was delivered. Perhaps, in time, Joy might come round, might set aside her wounded pride and find it in her heart to be kind to Li. Though Li's appearance in the castle meant a great deal to him personally he could not say what it meant for the future of the kingdom; it might well be that she still had no intention of accepting her birthright, that he was still in need of an heir, and thus in need of Joy. He had not slept a wink, and all his thoughts, all his questions, all his hopes, every possible consequence of the night's events went tumbling through his anxious mind at breakneck pace, and the riot of his thoughts left him feeling a bit dizzy and out of sorts.

"No," he said. "I'm a doctor myself, Joy. I examined her, and there's nothing to worry about. She's just had a very difficult journey, and her time's nearly come. I imagine the next few days will be uncomfortable for her, that's all."

Joy gave him a very strange look, then. "What else don't I know about you?" she asked him softly.

_The things you don't know about me could fill a book, _he thought sadly. "Why don't we have a seat?"

They were standing together in the parlor of his suite; Joy had come to him in a fine pink dress, while he himself was wearing the same trousers and wrinkled shirt he'd been wearing the night before, his jacket, tie, and waistcoat long since forgotten. There was a tray of breakfast things on the low table by the sofa; Peter had brought the food to him when he had chosen to forgo breakfast in the main hall, but Lucien had not touched it. His nerves were frayed, his mind racing; when he left Li's room he had thought that perhaps it might be time for a lie down, but there was too much noise in his head, and sleep remained beyond his reach.

At his suggestion Joy began to make her way across the room, and he followed in her wake. It did not escape his notice that she chose rather deliberately to settle herself in the armchair, rather than on the sofa as she ordinarily would have done. Apparently she had not interest in sitting beside him, this morning.

"Right," he said, flopping heavily onto the sofa. "You know that I was a soldier?" It seemed to him that the easiest thing to do would be to start at the beginning, and so he did.

"Everyone knows that, Your Majesty," she answered, frowning.

"I trained as a doctor first, and then served as a medic in the British army. I was stationed in Singapore. While I was there, I married a local girl."

"Married?" Joy repeated, her tone incredulous. "No one's said a word about -"

"No one knows about it," he said grimly. "I could probably count on my two hands the number of people in the whole world who know that I was ever married. I knew my father would not approve of my wife, so I didn't give him a chance to put a stop to it. The whole thing was done very quietly."

"And where is she now, your wife?" Joy spat out the word _wife_ as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. "Is she going to come waltzing through the door this evening?"

"My wife was killed during the battle of Hong Kong." The color drained out of Joy's face at those words, but Lucien took no satisfaction from the sudden change in her demeanor. "When it became clear that the Japanese were set to invade Singapore, I put my family on a boat. My wife's parents were already in Hong Kong, and I thought she would be safe there. But the ship sank, and my wife died, along with most of the passengers. Li was saved, but she was taken to an orphanage."

"Why was she not sent back to you? Or sent here to your father?" Joy had crossed her legs, and she leaned towards him now, her forearms resting on her knees, her eyes watching him carefully. Though he did not love her, though he did not think he could ever come to love her, Lucien did admire her, in some ways, and he appreciated her curiosity, her intellect, her keen insight into the world around her. If he could not have Jean, he supposed Joy would not be entirely unbearable.

"By then Singapore had fallen, and I was held in a prisoner of war camp." Joy gasped but Lucien did not stop to explain himself; those three years had been the darkest period of his life, and he had no intention of explaining it to Joy now. "The government in Hong Kong had no record of Li's identity, and no way to reach me even if they did, and my father did not know she even existed."

"I had no idea," Joy said softly. "They never mentioned any of that, in the papers. About the camp, I mean. It must have been dreadful for you."

For a moment, just the briefest of instants, Lucien contemplated rising to his feet, peeling the shirt from his back, and showing Joy the crisscross of scarring that scored his skin. She was meant to be his wife, and if that ever came to pass she would inevitably see those scars for herself; perhaps, he thought, it might be best to get it out of the way now, to show her exactly what sort of man she was marrying, the memory of misery he carried on his skin. There had been no need for such a display with Jean; she had known before he ever kissed her, before he ever fell in love with her, before he ever took her to bed, that his dreams were haunted by ghosts, that he grew maudlin with drink, that his memories were full of dark and terrible things. Joy didn't know any of that, and perhaps it would be a kindness to tell her now, before it was too late for her to turn tail and run.

And yet he did no such thing, for to reveal himself in such a way would be to leave himself vulnerable, and he did not trust Joy with the shattered pieces of his heart. Jean had dragged her fingertips against his back and with her gentle touch she had soothed him, blessed him, absolved him of his pain. Somehow he did not think that Joy's touch would have the same effect.

"No one did," he answered. "There were press releases, when I first came back, newspaper articles introducing me to the country. We rather conveniently chose to leave that part out. It doesn't make a difference, now, and I'm not interested in being the object of anyone's pity."

"Of course not," Joy demurred. "So your wife died, but you found your daughter?"

With that question they were back on track, and Lucien was grateful for the return to the subject at hand.

"When I became king, I set the security services to looking for her. They finally tracked her down a few months ago."

"That's why you went to Shanghai?"

"Yes."

Joy nodded, her eyes still watching him intently. "It was my understanding you were in need of an heir, Your Majesty, but it seems to me you've got two downstairs. I don't see where you need me at all, now that she's here, and about to give birth."

The same question had been rocketing around Lucien's brain for most of the morning. If Li delivered her child well and healthy, if she chose to stay in the castle, if she accepted the mantle of _princess_ and everything that came with it, he supposed he did not need Joy at all. He would not need a wife, another heir, would not need anything but his family. And yet he did not know for certain whether Li wanted to stay, and he had promised her that he would not ask her to do anything she was not willing to do. She had only arrived the night before, and Lucien felt it would be cruel to force her to make that choice now, when her grief was so very raw, when she found herself alone in a strange corner of the world where no one save Lucien spoke her language.

"My daughter was not raised a princess," he said slowly. "She doesn't speak much English, and our world is foreign to her, in every way. She may have no interest in assuming the throne when I'm gone."

"So you still need me, then," Joy said, though there was neither triumph nor relief on her face; if anything, her expression seemed bitter. "You want to hedge your bets. A spare child, just in case."

No, what Lucien wanted, more than anything, was to forget that he was king, to spend time with his daughter, to hold his grandchild in his arms, to be a _father_, and to hope that one day Jean might find her way back to him. Sir Patrick and the politicians could wring their hands over the rest of it; it made no difference to Lucien.

"I think that would make Sir Patrick happy," Lucien said.

"And what about you, Your Majesty? What would make you happy?"

_This is dangerous ground, _Lucien thought, scrubbing his hand across his face wearily. However much he might have disliked Joy's turn of phrase she had a point; he was not prepared to set Joy aside until he knew for certain whether Li intended to stay. He _was _hedging his bets. And perhaps that was cruel, to hold Joy in reserve, just in case he needed her. There was no great love between them, but she could not settle into her own life until he had made his choice.

_What would make me happy? _He wondered. Li made him happy, _Jean_ made him happy, a stable country and the lights in the glasshouse made him happy. Joy didn't factor into the bargain, when it came to the matter of his own happiness. But if Li chose to leave…

"It's all right, Your Majesty," Joy said, rising to her feet. "I think I know the answer. Or at least, I know I don't want to hear it." She smoothed the front of her dress, and offered him a wan smile. "I will stay for a month. If you haven't made up your mind by then, I'm leaving, and you'll have to find yourself another girl."

And then, without waiting for his dismissal, she turned and left the room on silent feet.


	44. Chapter 44

_28 September 1959_

Jean did not work on Mondays. The pub did good trade on Saturdays and so she worked with good humor, knowing that she would have Sunday and Monday all to herself, two days to spend exactly as she pleased. It was still a weekend, she told herself, just on a slightly altered schedule, and it suited her just fine. The work at the pub kept her hands busy, and those two days of rest allowed her ample time to putter in her back garden and catch up on her reading. It was a different sort of life to the one she'd known in the castle; even when she wasn't officially on shift she had always been at the beck and call of the royal family. She lived where she worked, and that sometimes made it feel as if the work itself never ended. Not so, now; she was in the pub most mornings by 7:00 or 8:00, and there until the dining room closed at 6:00. It made for a long working day, but the remaining hours were hers and hers alone, to spend exactly as she chose, and John did not prevail upon her on her days off.

Finding herself faced with a sudden wealth of free time, then, she had settled into a sort of routine. Sundays were for Eadie and church, for catching her breath after a long week. Mondays were for attending to any of her household chores that had been neglected during the week, but truth be told she had always been a naturally tidy sort of person, and one person alone in a small cottage did not make such a very big mess. And so she took her time, on Mondays; she walked out of her cottage on Monday mornings with the autumn sunlight bright upon her face, and went down the lane to the newsagents. She'd buy Sunday's paper - she still hadn't arranged for a delivery of her own, and Max at the newsagents always kept Sunday's paper back for her - and she'd carry it down to the cafe. If the weather was fine she would sit at a little table outside, order coffee and a pastry and read her newspaper while her neighbors passed her by on their errands. Jean had become familiar to most of the men in town thanks to her work at the pub, and her presence at church - and at that little cafe - meant she was familiar to most of their wives, as well. When people walked by they smiled at her, and sometimes stopped to chat, and all in all she thought it was not such a very bad life to live.

On this particular Monday she did not wake with any indication that trouble was in the offing; she had slept well and the weather was fine. Her shoes were comfortable, and the pavement was clear, an easy path to tread. She passed an old man walking a dog, and a friendly lady pushing a pram, and saw no reason to fret. In less than ten minutes she had reached the newsagents, and Max was waiting for her with a grin on his face.

"Oh, you'll have a treat this morning, Mrs. Beazley," he said as he retrieved the paper he'd held back for her. "You might want to buy today's, too, while you're at it."

"Is that so?" she asked, smiling as she reached into her purse for the coin to pay him.

"A sneak preview for you," he said, and then he laid _The Herald _flat on the counter so she could read the headline. There, in stark black and white, was a picture of Lucien standing in front of the castle - ostensibly speaking to a crowd of reporters - and the words above read LOST PRINCESS: THE KING'S SECRET LOVE CHILD RETURNS.

"What on earth?" Jean gasped, the coin tumbling out of her hand to clatter against the countertop. She did not have a television, and while she had been listening to the wireless the night before she'd had it tuned to a station that played only classical music, and had not heard a word of news since she'd left the pub on Saturday evening. Before this moment she had never imagined, never dreamed that Lucien's daughter might come home, that he might tell the world of her existence, but there was no denying it now; the cat was out of the bag, as it were. Jean snatched up the paper at once, eager, desperate almost to read it, to learn how this had come to be, to see for herself if Lucien and his child were well, and happy.

"And this is today's," Max added, pulling out another copy of _The Herald _ for her inspection. This headline was more insidious; SECRETS AND LIES: THE KING'S SECRET MARRIAGE, THE PRINCESS, AND LADY ANN, it read, and Jean's heart dropped like a stone in her chest.

"I'll have that one as well," she said faintly, rummaging through her purse for another coin.

"Thought you might," Max told her, grinning as he took her payment. "People been knocking down my door all day looking for news. It's all anyone can talk about it. Can you believe that, eh? Never would have thought he was the type to go off marrying some foreign girl in secret. I always thought he was too grim for all that."

Jean tucked both papers under her arm and stared at him, aghast at the very idea. Lucien, grim? Lucien with his warm smiles, his big booming laugh, his playful, impulsive nature? Lucien who had pulled her into his lap and kissed her, laughing? He was the farthest thing in the world from grim, and she could not bear the thought of anyone misunderstanding him so completely.

"I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation," Jean said, trying not to scold him, and then she turned and left that place, not quite running but moving at a good clip. Her thoughts were racing, and her feet carried her away from the newsagents, not towards the cafe but back towards home. She wanted, very much, to be alone while she read this news, did not want any interruptions, did not want to have to try to school her features or hide how much this story meant to her, the questions it inspired in her.

As soon as the cottage door was closed and locked behind her she kicked off her shoes, and started up the kettle. She made herself wait until she'd poured a cup of strong tea and settled at the table, but then she spread Sunday's paper open in front of her, and began to read.

_On Saturday morning, _the article began, _King Lucien called a press conference to deliver a prepared statement to reporters. A copy of that statement follows. _

Jean's eyes darted across the page, devouring the words, and as she read she fancied she could hear Lucien's voice in her mind, his strong, steady voice carefully proclaiming these shocking truths. It was all there, laid out quite plainly, the story of how Lucien had wed his girl in Singapore - _Mei Lin, _and now Jean had a name to give this shadow from her king's past - how they had conceived a child, how he had tried to send his family to safety before the Japanese had invaded, how he had been taken prisoner. That particular piece of information had never before been made public, and Jean's heart ached knowing how very much Lucien hated pity, how much he would have hated proclaiming such a thing. Most of this story she knew already, how long Lucien had searched for his child, how the security services had found her, how Lucien had gone all the way to China to see her. What she had not known was how the princess had come home, but the statement addressed that, as well.

The king's statement explained that the princess had been married and living peacefully in China until the sudden, unfortunate death of her husband. Now widowed and expecting a baby she had done the only thing she could do, and come to her father's house.

_I would implore you all to treat my daughter with the respect she deserves, not just as a princess of this kingdom, but as a wife, a mother, who has suffered a terrible loss, and wishes only to find peace. It would be inappropriate and unkind to force her to make a public appearance given her delicate condition, but in the future you will come to know her, and I hope you will come to love her, as I do. _

That was how the statement ended, the earnest plea of a father trying to protect his child. Tears gathered in Jean's eyes as she read those words; _that poor girl, _she thought sadly. To live her life believing she had been orphaned, abandoned, to try so hard to make her own way in a country where conditions were so very fraught, to have captured some bit of happiness only to have lost her husband before their child had even been born. It was terrible, dreadful, a string of losses and indignities that anyone would find difficult to bear. Jean knew what it was, to lose a husband, to be forced to raise a family alone, to face a future that was dark and full of uncertainty, and she felt a certain kinship with Princess Li, one widow to another. The princess's life would chart a very different course, however, for while Jean had been faced with poverty and deprivation the princess had a warm, comfortable home to run to, a father who would move mountains for her, and more money than Jean had ever dreamt of in her life. _She'll be all right, in time, _Jean told herself; _Lucien will see to that._

The article went on to give more details surrounding the princess's arrival and what could be expected in the days ahead, but overall it was rather dry and veered away from sensationalism. When she finished reading it she set aside Sunday's paper and picked up Monday's, and there she found a very different sort of story. This article had been written by someone else, and it was dripping with innuendo, though it stopped just short of outright incrimination.

_Sources within the castle have reported that the relationship between the King and the Lady Ann, who until now had enjoyed the King's favor, and who was rumored to be the natural choice for his queen, have soured. According to these sources the King had intended to announce his engagement to the Lady Ann - who has been living in the castle for just over a month now - at Christmas, but the arrival of his daughter appears to have changed his plans. The revelation of the King's lies has angered his lady love, and according to our unimpeachable sources he has not been in her company for days, choosing instead to dote upon his daughter. _

On and on it went, detailing the nature of the King's relationship with Lady Ann - and making much of her living in the castle, and all that that implied - and the possible catastrophic consequences of the princess's arrival at the castle. Though it turned her stomach to read such vulgar things about her king, written by people who did not know him, who could not hope to understand him, Jean forced herself to finish the article, and then she laid the paper aside, and took up her now tepid cup of tea.

Princess Li had come home. For that fact Jean was grateful, for she knew that nothing in the world could have made Lucien so happy as to have his child beneath his roof, with a grandchild on the way. He had been so worried about her, and now he could set his mind to rest, and that was all for the good. Jean rather thought he deserved some good in his life, after all his many losses.

As for the rest of it, Jean's mind was racing. _I don't want to dance with her, _the king had told her once; _I don't care a thing about her...I don't give a damn about Lady Ann. _Though Sir Patrick had been quite keen on the idea Lucien had been very clear that he was not interested in marrying the woman, but Jean knew that her sudden departure had thrust him into the Lady's clutches. Before now she had almost come to terms with that thought, with the knowledge that she had lost him to another, to a woman he did not love, for the sake of the kingdom, for the security of his family. But now, oh now the princess had come home, and any day now she would present her father with a grandchild, another heir to the throne. There would no longer be a need for a new queen, a new baby, not in the way that those things had been needed before. He was free, now, to cast Lady Ann aside. If he wanted to.

And Jean could not help but think that if she had not acted so rashly, if she had only listened to Lucien, if she had only been content to wait and bide her time, perhaps now might have been her moment. Perhaps now, now that the succession was settled, now that the king's daughter was home, they might have been better placed to plead their case to Sir Patrick, and move forward together in love and in hope. But she had _left, _had been rash and determined that there was no other option, and now she was alone. For even if the king decided against marrying Lady Ann it was not as if he would come for Jean now; she had broken his heart, left him cold and lonely, and surely he would not trust her to treat him more gently in the future. If only she had waited everything would be so _different, _and yet it was too late to change the course of her fate now.

_It was only a dream, _she told herself as the tears slipped silently down her cheeks. _Only a dream. _

* * *

"I'm serious, Matthew," Lucien growled as they walked together along the corridor toward the dining room. "We have to find out who's been talking to these journalists, and when we do…"

"I'll string them up by their toes," Matthew answered grimly.

"If I don't get to them first."

Lucien had been outraged that morning when Peter slunk into his suite and handed him the day's papers. Every newspaper in the kingdom had run a headline about Li, and most of them had been unfavorable, to say the least. _Sources inside the castle _had leaked all sorts of juicy details about his private life, about his child, about bloody Joy, and to say that he was angry would be to make a gross understatement. A towering fury such as he had never known had filled him, and he'd lit the papers on fire and left them to smolder in the bin, raging and wishing there was more that he could do. It was the height of cruelty, he thought, for these people to make such wild accusations about the women in his life, about his own plans, to use Li for target practice when she was in no condition to defend herself. With no other choice he'd arranged a meeting with Rose Anderson from the Press Office for that afternoon; it was time to do what the journos called _damage control _while Matthew turned his efforts towards rooting out the leaks within the castle.

They were heading to the dining room for breakfast, but they had not quite reached it when a maid came hurtling down the corridor behind them.

"Your Majesty!" She called out raggedly, skidding to a stop in front of him and fumbling her way through a curtsy, gasping for breath.

"Is everything all right?" Lucien asked at once, quite shocked by the utter lack of decorum; the maids were usually timid as mice when he was around.

"It's the Princess," the girl gasped. "Her waters' broke, and she's crying out something awful. I think the baby's coming."

All thoughts of retribution and wrath deserted Lucien at once, as terror and joy swelled within him. He had known this moment was coming, had been expecting it for days, but now that his grandchild's imminent arrival was upon him he hardly knew what to do with himself. As Li's father he could not have been happier, more elated at the thought of the baby's birth, but as a doctor fear wound its way round his heart. Li's ordeal was only just beginning, and there was no telling how things might go for her. _But it's too late to stop it, _he thought.

"Send for the midwife," he barked at the maid, for a midwife had been installed in the castle the day after Li arrived, and had been checking on her every day. He did not wait for the maid to acknowledge his command, nor did he spare a moment to speak to Matthew. He only gave the girl his orders, turned, and then ran down the corridor towards Li's room as fast as he could.


	45. Chapter 45

_28 September 1959_

Lucien came careening down the corridor, skidded to a halt and then all but flung the door to Li's suite open. His heart was pounding, but all thought seemed to have left his head; he was acting on instinct, now, determined as a doctor and as a father to do whatever he could to help his daughter, and bring his grandchild safe into the world.

The suite that had been given to Li upon her arrival was small but finely appointed. It was intended for use as guest quarters, meant for lower-ranking dignitaries who, while they were afforded lodgings in the castle, were not so highly placed as to command rooms on the same floor with the royal family. The suite's main virtue was its location on the first level of the castle; Lucien did not want to force Li to go trudging up and down the stairs in her condition, and she seemed grateful for his thoughtfulness in that regard.

The main door opened onto a modest sitting room, with wide, glittering windows set in the far wall to let in the cheery autumn sunlight. To the left was a door that led to a private bathroom, and to the right was the entrance to the bedroom. At present those three small rooms bustled with activity; there were quite a few maids milling about, clutching clean towels and speaking to one another softly. As Lucien watched one of them came racing out of the bedroom towards the bathroom, carrying a pitcher she no doubt intended to fill with water. She left the bedroom door open behind her, and from that room there came the sound of raised voices; he could hear the midwife, her tone warm and cajoling, could hear the doctor - whom he had not sent for, and of whom he did not entirely approve - barking orders, could hear the murmur of maids who had been pressed into this most unusual service, and above it all he could hear Li, in halting, broken English, desperately trying to make herself heard.

"No," she was saying as Lucien made his way into the bedroom. "No bed. No touch. You go."

"Step away from her at once!" Lucien demanded as the scene in front of him resolved itself.

Li was standing at the foot of her bed, both of her hands braced against the footboard, looking over her shoulder with panic in her eyes. The doctor and the midwife, dressed in white gowns, had laid out their terrifying-looking instruments on the dressertop, and had each taken hold of one of Li's arms, no doubt trying to lead her towards the bed. The maids, who no doubt only wanted to be of assistance, made moving through the room difficult, and a tense sort of terror seemed to fill the air. They made room for Lucien, however; one of the perks of being King, he had discovered, was that everywhere he went people cleared a path for him. At the sound of his voice Li's shoulders had sagged in relief, and the doctor and the midwife promptly removed their hands from her person, had each taken a step back though they were watching Lucien mistrustfully as he approached his daughter.

"Papa, please," Li begged him, her voice ragged from crying. "Please, tell them to go. They shouldn't be here."

The doctor was watching him warily; Li had switched back to Mandarin when she caught sight of her father, and Lucien had found that most people when faced with someone who did not speak their language tended to react as if any words they could not understand were surely some sort of personal affront.

"Of course, my darling," he told her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's going to be all right. I'll tell them to go."

Though Lucien himself would have gladly accepted help from any quarter it was plain that all these people were making Li terribly nervous, and that simply wouldn't do. She needed to be calm, she needed to feel comfortable, needed to feel as if she had some sense of control over what was happening, and being manhandled by strangers would only agitate her, and place both Li and her baby at risk.

"Right," he said in English, turning to those who had gathered around him, "I need everyone except Lillian to go back to the sitting room, and wait there for instructions. And close the door behind you."

"Your Majesty, I really must protest," the doctor said earnestly. "There is a way these things are done. We must do everything we can to insure that the Princess's baby is born properly, and she needs-"

"She needs a bit of peace!" Lucien cut him off sharply. "I am as much a doctor as you, and I will see she gets the care she needs."

"Your Majesty, this really is most improper-" the flabbergasted doctor seemed determined to overrule him, but he appeared to have forgotten that in addition to being a king, and a doctor, and a father, Lucien had also been a soldier, and was not afraid to use his fists to get his point across when the situation called for it. Trembling with anger as much as with fear Lucien took a single step towards the doctor, and the man's face paled as he looked up into the wild eyes of his king.

"You will leave," Lucien growled, "or so help me God I will _make_ you leave."

The maids had already fled, and the doctor was left with no one to defend him or his cause save for the midwife, and she did not seem willing to support him. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he slunk from the room, closing the door sharply behind him. They were alone, now, just Lucien and Li and Lillian the midwife, and the entire room seemed somehow lighter for the absence of all those people.

"Lillian," Lucien said to the girl, his hand still resting on his daughter's trembling shoulder. "Do we have everything we need?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, not daring to look into his eyes.

"Right," he sighed. "The Princess has lived most of her life in China. I've no doubt that things are done a bit differently there. The important thing now is to keep her comfortable, yes?"

"Yes, sir," the girl said again.

"Very good. Now you stay right there, and I'll let you know when we're ready for you."

The midwife nodded and stayed rooted to the spot, clutching a towel to her chest and giving every appearance of accepting his commands, for which Lucien was very grateful. He _had_ delivered a few babies during his medical training, but that had been a lifetime ago, and while he was confident that he understood the mechanics he was nonetheless grateful to have an expert of sorts on hand, and one who would not ask too many questions or push Li too far. _This is going to be a very long morning, _he thought, but he squared his shoulders, and turned his attention back to Li.

"There now," he said to her softly in Mandarin. "That's better, isn't it?"

Li smiled at him wanly. "They were making too much noise," she told him. "They act like I'm dying, but I'm only having a baby."

"They're just very excited," Lucien told her. "Now, would you be more comfortable on the bed?"

"No," Li answered at once. "No bed. It's better to stand, or to kneel, that's what my mother told me."

For a moment Lucien was shaken by her words; he was certain Mei Lin had never said any such thing to Li, who had been so very small when her mother died. And then it occurred to him that she was not talking about Mei Lin at all, but instead referring to the woman who had taken her in, the woman who had raised her, the only mother Li could remember now. Surely they must have discussed it, Lucien realized then; surely this woman who had loved and raised his daughter would have tried to her prepare her for what was to come, once the baby came. _Where is she now? _He wondered as he looked at Li. The family who had adopted her, raised her, _loved _her, where were they? Why had she not been able to go to them, and stay in her home? Had she left them behind, or had they suffered the same fate as her husband? And why had it never occurred to him to ask before now?

_A question for another time, perhaps, _he thought sadly.

"All right," he said aloud. "All right. If you're comfortable here you can stay where you are."

As he spoke Li's face went pale and her eyes closed sharply, her grip on the footboard so tight her knuckles went white from the strain of it. She made no sound, but her whole body was tense, and Lucien did not doubt that it was a contraction, one of many.

"Have you been timing them?" he asked the silent midwife in English.

"It's been about fifteen minutes since the last one, sir," she answered at once.

"Right." There was time yet, then, if the contractions were still that far apart.

Beside him Li had relaxed somewhat, and she was watching him expectantly, no doubt hoping he might have some news for her after speaking to the midwife.

"I'm afraid you have a long way to go, my darling," he told her, and to his surprise she laughed.

"I've waited so long already," she said, somewhat wistfully. "But now the time has come, and everything is happening so quickly. What difference does a few hours make, when I've waited so many months?"

Lucien smiled down at her, and rubbed his hand gently across her back. "It will all be worth it," he told her. "You'll see."

* * *

They passed the time the best they could; Lucien cleared everyone out of the sitting room, and Li paced for a while, making a slow, ponderous circuit around the suite while holding tight to her father's hand, stopping every now then to squeeze him fiercely through the pain of a contraction. He coaxed her into drinking a bit of water, and nibbling on a biscuit; she would need strength to see her through to the end of this ordeal, and while he would have preferred her to eat an actual meal, he supposed he ought to take what he could get. Lunchtime came and went, and the three of them - Lucien and Li and Lillian - got to know one another quite well. Li and Lillian could communicate with no more than one or two words at a time and so Lucien was often forced to act as translator, but for all that they seemed to manage.

As the day wore on Li's time drew near, and they retreated once more to the bedroom, where Li took up her post at the end of the bed. The contractions were coming quite close together now, and Li's face was haggard and wan from exhaustion. Lucien wanted, very much, for her to lie down, but she remained adamant, and he decided it might be wise to pick his battles, and let it go, for now.

"Li, my darling," he said to her as he stood beside her, watching her face for the smallest sign that something was amiss. "Lillian needs to check the baby's position. We need to make sure that everything is all right. Will you let her look?"

For a moment Li seemed to be deliberating with herself, torn between her fierce desire for privacy and her concern for her baby. As they walked she had told him that she'd heard stories of women in the rural parts of China giving birth in the fields, wrapping their babies up and going straight back to work; she seemed to admire them, seemed too proud to accept any sort of coddling from her anxious father.

"Yes," she said at last, and Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. He gave Lillian a nod, and held his daughter's hand while the midwife knelt at her feet and lifted her nightdress to check her progress.

"I hope it's a boy," Li told him as she closed her eyes, no doubt made uncomfortable by this intrusion but submitting to it just the same. "I could name him for his father. And for you. A grandson, to carry on your legacy. A boy would be an honor."

"A girl would be a blessing," Lucien told her earnestly. "You are the most wonderful gift I have ever received, my darling."

Li looked up at him then, her lower lip trembling, her eyes full of tears, and Lucien could not help but lean over, and press a kiss against her forehead.

"Your Majesty?" Lillian said sharply from her position on the floor. "Can you tell her to set her feet further apart and brace herself? I think we're in the home stretch now. Baby's getting ready to put in an appearance."

Lucien's heart gave a great leap in his chest, but he relayed her instructions to Li at once, and thus began the final stage of their endeavor. There was weeping, as much from Lucien as from Li, and though she did her best to contain the sounds of her pain as her labor wore on the shrill call of Li's voice grew louder, and louder still. Towards the end Lillian helped Li down onto her knees, and Lucien knelt behind her, braced himself and held his daughter up while the midwife dove beneath her nightdress, and with deft hands and gentle encouragement she coaxed Lucien's grandchild at last into the world.

Li slumped back against him, weeping and spent, and Lillian emerged triumphant, holding a squalling newborn in steady hands.

"The towel if you please, your Majesty," she said, grinning fit to burst. Lucien did as he was bid, and Lillian had the baby wrapped up tight in a moment, passing the child to Li.

"Tell her not to cut the cord yet," Li said to her father as she took her child and held the baby close, tears streaming down her face. "I want to keep him with me, just for a little while." Lucien relayed her request, and Lillian nodded, sitting down on the floor with her back against the footboard of the bed, her legs stretched out in front of her as exhaustion began to set in for her, as well.

"Tell the Princess she has a beautiful baby daughter," Lillian said. "We can stay like this for a while, but when the afterbirth comes I'll need you to take the little one."

"Of course," Lucien said. He was still kneeling behind Li, his arms around her, and when he looked down over her shoulder he looked into the beautiful, delicate face of his granddaughter, and a ragged, choking sob lodged itself in the back of his throat. In that moment he wished, more than anything, that Mei Lin had lived, that she could have been here to support their daughter, to share in the joy that filled that room, the beauty of the moment. _We have lost so much,_ _she and I, _he thought. _But we can share this, now. And that must be enough._

"Li," he said raggedly, "Li, you have a daughter."

"A daughter?" she repeated faintly. For a moment he was afraid that she would not be pleased, that she would be disappointed not to have a son as she had dearly wished for, but then she laughed, and relief flooded him. "Hello, beautiful girl," she said to the baby, and then she bowed her head, and kissed her daughter's brow.

The midwife had been right, of course; they could not linger there indefinitely. The cord was cut, and then Li and Lillian turned their attention to the afterbirth, and Lucien rose to his feet with his granddaughter in his arms. She had a dusting of fine dark hair, and though her eyes were closed he knew when she opened them they would be dark like her mother's, like her grandmother's, and he was glad of it. The fan of her eyelashes rested against porcelain cheeks, her features delicate and lovely; to his eyes she looked exactly as Li had done on the day of her birth, beautiful and perfect, and he loved her so much he felt as if his heart might burst in his chest.

Standing there in the corner of the room, swaying with that precious baby held tight in his arms, a sense of peace flooded him, a contentment he had not known since the day Jean left him. They would be all right, he thought, Lucien and his girls, so long as they had one another.

"Welcome home, little one," he said, and held her close.


	46. Chapter 46

_6 October 1959_

"How about a nice stroll around the garden?" Lucien asked as Li rose slowly to her feet. They were standing together in Li's suite of rooms, and Lucien held his granddaughter in his arms, wearing a smile he could not seem to shake. It was just over a week since her birth, and mother and baby were both recovering nicely from their ordeal. The weather was warm for early autumn, and Lucien rather thought they might all of them enjoy a few minutes spent in the sunshine; oh, Li tired easily, these days, and he did not intend to push her, but someone had told him once that fresh air was good for the soul, and he believed it.

"You have a garden, papa?" Li asked him as she shrugged into her coat. For a moment he was thrown by the question, but he recovered quickly; of course Li knew nothing of the castle grounds. She'd arrived in the dead of night and been whisked straight to these rooms, and her exhaustion coupled with her delicate condition and the sudden arrival of her daughter had combined to keep her confined for much of the time she'd been with him.

"I do," he told her brightly. "The castle grounds are actually quite large. We won't be able to see all of it today, but perhaps when you've got a bit more strength I could give you a proper tour." He wanted her to see it, all of it, the beauty of this place that was hers by rights; he wanted to provide for her every joy, her every comfort, wanted to see her smiling every day for the rest of his life. No decision had been made as yet, regarding Li's future and whether she would stay with him, and Lucien had decided not to demand an accounting from her. Every moment she spent with him was a gift, and he would treasure them all.

"I would like that very much," she answered.

Lucien beamed at her, and turned to the side, offering her his arm so that she might take it, and they might walk out from that place together. Li was smiling softly as her hand clasped his elbow, and he was glad of it, for he knew that she had suffered a great deal in recent days; he was grateful to see that she had not forgotten what it was, to feel happiness.

"And I have a little surprise for you," he said as they stepped through the door together. His surprise was waiting for them in the corridor, and Li's eyes locked on it at once, a delighted little gasp escaping her at that discovery.

"Papa!" she cried, "Did you buy this for us? When did you have the time?"

Lucien grinned at her as he laid his granddaughter gently inside the glimmering new pram he'd procured for her, tucking the blankets up under her chin and assuring himself that she was comfortable before turning back to Li.

"I confess I had to ask Matthew for help, but he was happy to do it. Do you like it?"

"It's wonderful, papa," Li said, and then, apparently quite impulsively, she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she told him earnestly.

Lucien's heart was so very full that for an instant he hardly knew what to say. For so many years he'd dreamed of finding Li again, seeing her, talking to her, being her _father_ as he so dearly wanted to be, and now that she had returned to him all the darkness that had haunted him for nearly two decades seemed to have passed into memory, replaced by this blazing sunlight of joy. If there was a part of his heart that was lonesome, a part of him that wished, more than anything else, that he might share his joy with someone who understood him, who loved him, who knew all that he had suffered and would likewise know how important this change in circumstances was to him, he tried to push those feelings aside, for he knew that he was a lucky man, and he could hardly dare ask for more than had been given to him already.

"Only the best, for my girls," he said when he'd found his voice again. "Let's see how she does, eh?"

Li grasped the handle of the pram and together they began to walk slowly towards the front door; they were in no particular hurry, and they were content simply to be with one another. The baby did not fuss, but then as Lucien recalled Li had always been quite happy in her own little pram; perhaps it was the movement that soothed them, he thought, first Li and now Lin. For that was the name Li had chosen for her child; _Lin, _meaning - if Lucien recalled his lessons correctly - _fine jade, _or _gem. _And she was a _gem, _a treasure, precious to her mother and grandfather both; _a daughter would be a blessing, _Lucien had told Li, and it seemed that she quite agreed with him. Little Lin had not been christened yet, and that state of affairs was sending the Earl Marshall into fits, but Lucien saw no need to press the issue. He did not hold with religion himself, and Li certainly saw no need to keep with Catholic teachings. Perhaps it would become a problem further down the line, perhaps there was some finer point of legal doctrine pertaining to the royal family of which he was not aware, but for now it made no matter to him; Lin was healthy, eating well and not crying any more than one would expect from a newborn, and that was enough to satisfy her grandfather.

As they emerged into the grand foyer a strange sight was waiting for them; Joy was standing by the door, a small travelling case on the floor at her feet, her eyes on the silver watch she wore on her wrist.

"Will you excuse me one moment, Li?" Lucien asked; his daughter nodded, her eyes landing with some curiosity on Joy, and so Lucien left her there, and made his way towards his almost-fiance.

"Joy?" he said as he reached her. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," she answered, offering him a brief curtsy. "I had hoped not to interrupt you, but it seems I've failed."

"Joy, what on earth-"

"I'm leaving, Your Majesty," she cut him off, but there was no anger in her; if anything, he rather felt as if she were trying to spare him the embarrassment of further inquiry. "I think it's for the best. For all of us."

The matter-of-fact tone in which she spoke those words threw him, and for a moment Lucien was left simply staring at her, trying to wrap his mind around her declaration. She was _leaving, _and taking all of Sir Patrick's hopes for a royal wedding and another royal heir with her. Given that before this moment Lucien had intended to marry her he supposed he ought to feel some sort of distress at the thought of her departure, but his primary response in the moment was one of relief. In reaching this decision on her own Joy had spared him the agony of choosing for himself, and spared him also any sort of unpleasant scenes. Perhaps she had placed an undo burden on Li, but then she had told him once _you'll have to find yourself another girl, _and if it came right down to it, Lucien supposed he would. He would never dream of marrying a woman who was unwilling, and it seemed to him that Joy had made up her mind not to accept him.

"I've sent for a car," she told him. "It should be here any minute, and then I'll be on my way. I'll arrange for the rest of my things to be sent to my father's house."

"Joy, I…" Lucien did not know what he intended to say, only that he felt he ought to say _something, _but Joy saved him from himself.

"I know I said I'd give you a month, but I can see there's no need. That girl adores you, Your Majesty," she said with a meaningful glance towards Li, "and it's clear how much you love her. She won't leave you now. She's already made up her mind, she just doesn't know it yet. And if you have your daughter, and your granddaughter, then you don't need me, do you?"

_No, I suppose I don't, _he thought, but he wisely kept those words to himself.

"There's no great love between us. And if you don't need me, and you don't love me, why should I stay? I will admit, it would have been nice to be queen," she added somewhat wryly, "but it isn't worth the price I'd have to pay."

At that very moment the door swung open, one of the young guards standing on the other side.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty," he said, offering Lucien a sharp salute. "Lady Ann's car has arrived."

"This is good-bye, then," Joy said. "Let's not draw it out, shall we?"

Lucien reached for her hand, then, for while he understood what she had told him, why she had made this choice - and agreed with her wholeheartedly - still a part of him felt somewhat responsible, as if he had wounded her in some way.

"Travel safe, Joy," he told her. "Look after yourself. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she answered, and though he did not love her, though he knew he never could, in that moment he could not help but admire her for her dignity, her poise, for her pride, for the strength that had brought her this far. She was lovely, and perhaps, in another life, they might have been content with one another, but Lucien's heart belonged to someone else, and he was beginning to suspect it always would. "Be happy, Your Majesty," she told him, and then she picked up her bag, and turned away from him, and Lucien watched her go in silence, his thoughts a confusing tangle he could not fathom.

* * *

"Oi! Jeannie!" John called gaily from the kitchen doorway, "your fella's come back!"

At the sound of his voice Jean spun around to face him, and for a moment she frowned, wiping her hands on her apron and trying to work out what on earth he meant. The answer came to her quite quickly, however; it was Matthew, had to be Matthew, for he was the only _fella _who'd ever visited her at the pub.

"Well, let's see what he wants then, shall we?" she answered primly, crossing the kitchen quite quickly, eager to hear news of those she loved, Mattie and Alice and Matthew and Danny and Charlie and Rose and _him, _most of all. The papers had been awash with innuendo and suspicion in recent days, but there had been no more formal announcements from the castle, and so Jean was left in the dark, wondering how her king was faring now that his child had come home.

"Oh, I've a fair idea what he wants," John told her, waggling his eyebrows at her insinuatingly.

_I don't think you have the first idea, _Jean thought, but she bit her tongue and brushed past him, making her way quickly into the pub's dining room. And there he was, Matthew Lawson, tall and brooding in his fine black suit, leaning heavily on his cane. It was just after lunch on a Tuesday afternoon, and the pub was deserted at present; those patrons with jobs were hard at work, and those without were still fast asleep. Jean greeted him in much the same manner as she had the last time he'd turned up, with a kiss on the cheek and a quiet word, and John shuffled them off to the same booth, pouring the same cup of tea, the same pint of beer, before retreating to a safer distance.

"You're looking well," Matthew told her, tilting his glass towards her in salute before taking a long sip.

"I am well," she answered, smiling. "The work keeps me occupied, and my neighbors are pleasant. It's not such a very bad place to be."

"That's good," Matthew answered.

"And you? Everything all right back home?"

She hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to refer to the castle as _home,_ but in a way she supposed it was, and always would be. The castle was her home for that was where her heart lived, and always would; it was a place full of memories, the bitter and the sweet together, and it was the place where Lucien would always be, carrying on without her.

"Everyone is well. Alice sends her love."

Jean beamed at that; though there was nothing official about it - and likely never would be - the King's Personal Secretary and the Chief of the Palace Guard had always got on quite well together, had always seemed to..._understand_ one another, and in her heart Jean suspected that if Matthew ever chose to tender his resignation Alice would not be far behind.

"I wanted to tell you, before you saw it in the papers," Matthew said then, and Jean's heart dropped like a stone in her chest. _They aren't waiting until Christmas after all, _she realized despondently; _he's going to marry her, and they're going to announce it. _She had known this moment was coming, had known that the King had chosen Lady Ann to be his wife, and that there would be no stopping their union, nor any need. And yet the very thought of it grieved her, more than words could say.

"The Princess has had her baby," Matthew continued, and Jean swung from desolation to joy so quickly it left her feeling rather dizzy. "A little girl, born a week ago yesterday."

"Oh, Matthew, that's wonderful news!" Jean cried, reaching out to cover his hand with her own against the tabletop. His was not the hand she wanted to hold in that moment, but she was grateful for his presence, his concern, his friendship, was relieved to know that the Princess and her child were well and healthy, that Lucien's family was happy and complete.

"Mother and baby are doing well, and the King is happier than I've ever seen him."

Jean's smile faltered for an instant, but she fixed it back at once. Of course he was happy, and why shouldn't he be? He had his daughter, his granddaughter, and a beautiful young woman to be his wife; a king could want for nothing more. If there was a piece of her heart that wished most fervently to learn that he suffered, as she did, from their separation, that he missed her half so desperately as she did him, she counted it pure selfishness, and tried to ignore the way her heart ached in her chest.

"And what's more," he added, "I have it on good authority that Lady Ann left the castle this morning, and she won't be returning. The papers will have a field day with that."

"She _left?"_ Jean repeated incredulously. "Why on earth would she do a thing like that?" Though Jean knew she could hardly be impartial on the subject of the man she loved she could not understand why Lady Ann would leave the castle, and in so doing abandon everything Jean herself so dearly longed for. A handsome, gentle man, a comfortable life, wealth and stability, a grandchild to dote on, and - in Lady Ann's case, though not Jean's - the chance for a baby of her own to hold; what more could any woman want?

"You'd have to ask her," Matthew answered wryly, "but between you and I, I think she's done the king a favor."

"Oh, Matthew," Jean sighed, dropping her gaze down to her teacup and gathering her hands together in her lap. Perhaps _this _was why he had come, to point out that the king was no longer engaged to another, that the way ahead might be easier for Jean and her love, but if it was he was sorely mistaken. There was still the matter of the indiscreet way Jean had begun her first marriage, the matter of her lowly station, the matter of _Jack, _not to mention the heartless way Jean had been forced to abandon her king; perhaps he would not marry Lady Ann, but that did not mean he could marry _her,_ and Jean knew it, even if Matthew did not.

"I said he was happier than I've ever seen him," Matthew told her seriously, "but make no mistake, Jean, he could be happier still. There is something he wants, very much-"

"It's something I can't give him," she told him sadly.

"You're both too noble for your own bloody good, do you know that?" Matthew grumbled. "He won't chase after you because he thinks it's not what you want, and you won't go back to him because you think he deserves better. From where I'm sitting, you're both as bad as each other. That makes you well-suited, if you ask me."

Jean laughed, a bit wetly, and reached for her tea, hoping it might steady her nerves, soothe her fraying heart. They _were_ rather well-suited to one another, and perhaps that was the hardest part, the knowledge that they could have made one another happy, that they could have loved one another, that they could have built a fine life together, if only things had been different. The Princess's arrival had neatly removed one obstacle, but the others remained in place, and Jean could see no way forward for her and her king.

"It's the way things are," she said then. "And the way they'll always be. Now, tell me the truth, is Danny staying out of trouble?"


	47. Chapter 47

_2 November 1959_

"Your Majesty, please, be reasonable," Patrick said, his tone just this side of cajoling.

They were sitting together in the counsel room on a chilly Monday morning, and the Prime Minister, having completed his weekly run-through of all matters of state that required the king's attention, had turned the conversation to the matter of the succession, and the Princess. The last thing Lucien wanted was to indulge Sir Patrick and his concerns; what Li did, the choices she made were her own affair, and he staunchly refused to push her in one way or another.

"My own father sent soldiers to pull me out of my bed and drag me back here," Lucien reminded him through gritted teeth. "I will not do the same to my daughter. The choice is up to her, and when things are more settled-"

"Your Majesty, she's been here for over a month," Patrick protested. "She has given no indication that she wishes to leave. Your granddaughter's birth has been announced, and the kingdom is eager to see their Princess. How long do you expect them to wait? How long do you expect to drag this out?"

The truth was that Lucien had no idea. Sir Patrick wanted a formal announcement, wanted a photo opportunity with Li, Lucien, and little Lin all dressed in their finest and waving to reporters from the castle walls. Sir Patrick wanted a tutor for Li, to teach her English and everything that was expected of a princess. Sir Patrick wanted an ironclad succession, and a chance to take a deep breath for the first time since King Thomas died. All Lucien wanted, however, was for his daughter to be happy, and he would not risk alienating her, not even for the sake of the kingdom.

"Has she said anything to you, about what she intends?"

Lucien could do no more than stare at Sir Patrick helplessly. No, Li had not spoken of her plans for the future, but then again-

"Have you asked her, Your Majesty? Have you explained the situation to her?"

"No," Lucien said, finding his voice at last. "No, I haven't. But you're right, Patrick. Things can't go on as they are. At the very least, I ought to help her learn a bit more English. She's a young woman, and I worry about her being alone, without any company."

"As a princess she would be entitled to ladies-in-waiting. She could make _friends_, Your Majesty, and that might help her feel more at home here."

Though Patrick had hardly made the suggestion out of a sense of compassion Lucien was nonetheless grateful for the reminder that Li's life did not have to be a solitary one, should she choose to stay with him. The castle was full of court functionaries, and the apartments in the secondary house on the grounds were home all sorts of people, some of whom existed only to keep the royal family from becoming too lonesome. Surely there was someone out there, somewhere, who could be a friend to Li; surely, she could be happy there, in time.

"I will speak to her," Lucien promised. "And we will revisit the matter of the succession at another time."

"Soon, I hope, Your Majesty," Patrick told him grimly, and that was that.

The last month had been a strange one, and time had gotten away from Lucien, he realized as he walked out of the counsel room and meandered back towards his own suite. He had been so relieved to have Li back, and she had been so consumed by her duties as a new mother, that everything else seemed to have been forgotten. Even Joy's departure had faded from Lucien's mind, as thoughts of his family crowded out everything else. But there was no one else in the castle Li could speak to besides her father and her newborn daughter; her husband was gone, and she had left behind a familiar life for a world that was completely alien to her. How lonesome must she be, Lucien thought as he walked; how very isolated she must feel, adrift in a sea of people who could not understand her, some of whom were frightened of her. That state of affairs needed to change, and soon; he could hardly imagine that Li would choose to stay unless the castle truly began to feel like home, and so long as she was lonely and uncomfortable, that would never come to be. It would fall to Lucien, then, to help her in any way he could, and he resolved himself to make a start that very afternoon.

The rest of the morning was given over to work, the endless reams of paper that came with kingship, and then Lucien enjoyed a quick, private lunch in his own sitting room before heading down the stairs to check in on Li. It was in his mind to broach the topic of a tutor, and in so doing delicately assess his daughter's intentions as regarded the future, but the moment he opened the door the sound of Lin's wailing filled the air, and all thoughts of such discussions fled from his mind.

"Is everything all right, my darling?" Lucien asked as he stepped into the bedroom, and found Li sitting on the end of the bed with Lin in her arms and a haggard expression on her face.

"It's fine, papa," she said, though her voice was thin with exhaustion. "She's just a bit...unsettled. She wants to walk, but I'm so _tired."_

The day after Lin was born a nanny had been dispatched to assist with Lin's care; it was simply the way things were done in a royal household. The heir to the throne was not expected to spend her time with such mundane occupations as child-rearing, but Li would have none of it. She was too proud to ask for help, and too frightened to hand her precious daughter off to someone who did not even speak her own language. For now, Lucien supposed there was no real need for a nanny, given that Li had not assumed any royal duties nor given any indication that she intended to, and so he had given in to his daughter's request, and let the matter drop. Now, however, seeing how very worn out she looked, he could not help but wonder if that had been a mistake.

"Will you let me take her?" he asked gently. "Just for a little while, so you can rest?"

For a moment he thought she would refuse him, but in the end exhaustion won out over pride, and Li agreed. In a moment he had scooped Lin into his arms, holding her close and beginning to pace around the room, bouncing her gently as he went, and as he did she seemed to calm. Li had been much the same as a child, as he recalled; she had been happiest when she was walking, eager to see everything around her, wishing always to be held. Lucien had treasured those moments with his daughter when she was small, and he treasured them now with Lin.

"She's always happy when you hold her," Li said quietly from her position on the bed; she was watching him with a fond sort of expression in her dark eyes, and Lucien could not help but smile.

"I love her very much," Lucien answered. "Maybe she knows that already."

"Maybe she does," Li answered. "Would you mind to keep her, just for a little while? I think I need to lie down."

"Of course," Lucien answered at once. He crossed the room to her side, and kissed her forehead. "Get some sleep. Lin and I will take a walk, won't we, sweetheart?"

Lin did not respond, but then he had not really expected her to. Li shuffled under her duvet, and Lucien left her there, closing the door quietly behind him as he went. The pram was waiting for them in the sitting room, but Lucien passed it by, choosing instead to wrap Li up tight in a blanket before carrying her out of the room. He had no real destination in mind; he intended to go outside, to wander amongst the gardens and allow Lin the chance to take in some fresh air, but the day was a bit chilly, and he did not want to linger over long outside. Just a quick stroll, then, with no real goal other than to stretch his legs and get a chance to hold his granddaughter.

She really was a lovely little thing. Lin was putting on weight, and her dark hair was filling out, and her big, dark eyes drank in the sight of everything around her with an avid curiosity. Her little cheeks had grown a bit chubby in a way that made her smile all the more charming, and she had rather masterfully wrapped her grandfather around her little finger. Already Lucien felt he would give her anything she asked of him, and she hadn't even learned how to speak.

It was a gift, he thought, that his girls should find their way back to him. He'd lost his mother, lost Mei Lin, lost his father, lost Jean, and Li had lost her husband and her home; there had been so much grief, in their lives, so much loss, and yet now they had this beautiful new discovery to share, this joy to heal their wounded hearts. Having them here, all beneath the same roof, was everything he'd ever dreamed of, and as he walked he reminded himself of the decision he'd come to, the discussion he must have with Li. She would need to know what lay in store, should she choose to stay, but she needed to know, too, that her father would do everything he could to make her happy.

Quite without realizing it Lucien found himself stepping into the glasshouse. It was warmer inside, and the sunlight sent sparkling rays of diamond-bright radiance glittering down all around him. The flowers had been carefully tended, and the whole place smelled of dirt, and new growth, and life. As it was only early afternoon the fairy lights had not been turned on, but Lucien did not miss them, for there was beauty enough in that place. In that place he'd built for Jean, that place where her feet would never tread; his heart grew heavy with remembered sadness as he walked there. What would Jean have said, he wondered, if she'd been given the chance to meet Li, if she'd seen Lucien holding his granddaughter? How would she have treated these two girls who were so dear to Lucien's heart?

_She would have treated them kindly, as she treats everyone, _he thought sadly as he walked. _She would have loved them, and I would have loved her, and we would have been content. _

But Jean was gone, and she would not return, for she had made her choice. This was as close as he would come to introducing Jean to Lin, walking here in this place where he felt almost as if he could reach out and touch Jean's heart with his own fingertips.

"She was a wonderful lady," he said out loud. In his arms Lin blinked owlishly at him in response to his voice, and he took that as his cue to continue. "She was beautiful, and she was kind. She lost a great deal, too, you know. She lost her husband, just as we lost your grandmother. And she has a little granddaughter of her own, not much older than you. I don't think I realized that before, that we're both grandparents. I wonder what she'd make of that."

Perhaps it was fanciful to even think such a thing, but Lucien rather got the sense that Lin understood him. At least, she seemed to understand that his voice was nothing to be afraid of, and so he carried on.

"I suppose I shouldn't tell you about her, though," he mused. "I should tell you about your grandmother. Your mummy's mummy. Would you like that, sweetheart?"

And so it was that Lucien settled himself down on a bench with Lin laid out across his knees, speaking to her softly of the woman who had been his wife. It comforted him somewhat, to tell the story of how he'd met Mei Lin, what sort of woman she had been, how lovely the life they built together had been; it brought him some sense of peace, for though Mei Lin was gone he held on his lap a child whose face was the very echo of her own, and that was right, and good.

After a time, though he could not say quite how long, there came a quiet step behind him, and he looked up to find Li walking towards him. She wore a plain brown dress, one of the few pieces of clothing she'd brought with her from China; the cut was severe and the fabric thin, and as she drew near Lucien couldn't help but wonder whether the time had come for him to make a gift to her, to help her build a wardrobe that would sustain her through the looming winter, and befit her station as a princess. Despite the plainness of her clothes she was lovely; her dark hair shone in the afternoon sun, and she appeared refreshed after her short nap.

Charlie Davis trailed along silently behind her; he had been named the head of the Princess's Personal Guard, and he took his duties quite seriously. Every time Li stepped out of her room Charlie was there, walking just behind her, but Li did not seem to mind his presence, and for that Lucien was very grateful. The last thing he wanted was to fight with his daughter about her guards, to give her reason to think she and her child would not be safe in the castle, but the threats against his life would surely extend to his daughter, and her daughter, and so he wanted her, always, to be protected. And for that job there was no one better suited than Charlie, who had nearly given his own life to save his king.

"I thought I might find you here," Li said softly, coming to sit beside him on the bench. Lucien had told her once, during one of their many tours of the garden, that the glasshouse was quite his favorite place on the grounds, and she had taken his words to heart.

"It's warmer in here," Lucien answered, "and I think she wanted to see the flowers."

"I think _you_ wanted to see the flowers," Li answered, a teasing glint in her eyes, but Lucien could not quite bring himself to smile in response. In truth he loved the flowers, but only because _Jean_ had loved flowers, because he had built this place for her, because when he stood in the glasshouse he thought of her, and remembered.

"You seem sad," Li said then, her smile fading as she watched him closely. "Is it because your lady went away?"

"How did you know about that?" Lucien was completely caught off guard by her quiet question; he was quite certain that he had never spoken of Jean to his daughter.

"I was there when she left, papa," Li pointed out, and Lucien realized his mistake; she was not speaking of Jean, but of _Joy. _"And the maids talk to each other when they come to my rooms, because they think I can't understand them. I only know a few words, but I heard them say you must be sad, because you lost your joy."

"Clever girl," Lucien said ruefully. Of course Li had been listening, was always listening; it was easy to underestimate her, given her slight stature, her loose grasp of the language, her quiet nature, but she was a force to be reckoned with, and he could not have been more proud of her. "Her name was Joy," he said, "and yes, she's gone, but that's...that's not why I'm sad."

"Did I make trouble for you, papa? I did not mean-"

"No," Lucien said at once, for he did not want her to believe, even for a moment, that Joy had left because of her, "no, it's nothing like that. I was...we were...we were supposed to be married. But the truth is I didn't love her, and in the end she decided she would rather not be married to me."

"If you didn't love her, why would you marry her?"

It was an honest question, and Lucien felt it deserved an honest answer. More than that, he felt that Li had just provided him an opening to address his concerns regarding the future, and so he bulled ahead with his tale.

"A king must have an heir. Someone to pick up the crown after he's gone, someone to keep the country steady. I have you, my darling, and I could not ask for more, but you told me you did not want to leave China. I would never ask you to do something you didn't want to do. But that means I need an heir. It was decided that I should marry Joy. She would have been...a good fit."

"They would have forced you to marry against your will?" Li seemed shocked by the very idea; perhaps she thought that, as king, Lucien would be allowed a bit more freedom in his own life. If she did, she was mistaken.

"For the good of the kingdom, yes."

"So if I leave," Li said slowly, "you will have to marry and have another child, but if I stay, you won't have to?"

"It is entirely your choice, whether you stay or go," Lucien told her earnestly. He gathered Lin into his arms and held her close, turned on the bench so he could look in his daughter's face as he spoke. "I only want you to be happy, my darling. Don't worry about me."

"I do worry about you, papa," she told him sadly. "I want you to be happy, too."

"What a pair we make, eh?" Lucien said ruefully. Carefully he passed Lin to her mother, and then he leaned over, and kissed his daughter's cheek.

"This is how things are," he began to explain. "You have a choice to make. You do not have to be a Princess. You and Lin can go wherever you wish, or you could live here in the castle, and you can do as you please. But if you choose not to be a Princess, I will still need an heir. I will need to marry, and have a child, someone to follow after me. If you decide that you will be a Princess, that you will take up the crown when I'm gone, you will have a great many responsibilities. And I don't want you to take them on for my sake. It is a very serious decision."

"What sort of responsibilities?" Li asked him curiously. "It is a job, is it not? Like being a politician."

"Yes, it is rather," Lucien agreed. "If you like, you could come with me to work for a few days. I could show you what it is that I do."

"I think that would be nice," Li said firmly. "Whether I stay or go, I will need something to do with my time. I can't stay in those rooms all day. And it doesn't seem fair, for me to turn aside from my duty and force you to have another child, just to do what I could not. Let me see what it is you do, papa, and then I can decide for myself."

"Thank you," he told her earnestly. Her hands were occupied with holding her child, and so rather than reaching for her hand he draped his arm around her shoulder, and she leaned against him.

"It is the right thing to do," she said simply. "But I want to know; if you did not love this Joy, if you are not sad that she has gone, then why do you look so sad now?"

"I was remembering," he told her then. For he had been; he had been remembering Mei Lin, her wicked wit, her sparkling smile, the delirious days of their marriage when everything between them had been full of love, and light. He had been remembering Jean, as well, the curve of her hip and her gentle wisdom, all the hope, the opportunities that seemed to open before them, and how cruelly those hopes had been dashed. The glasshouse was a place where memories stalked silent as ghosts beside him, but he did not want to think of them now, not now when he felt as if he had once more seized onto a piece of hope for his future. Li was curious about the possibilities before her, the path she might take, and he wanted to help guide her, to help her make a decision that would bring her happiness, and in so doing, perhaps lessen some of the grief he carried within his own heart.


	48. Chapter 48

_30 November 1959_

"How about that, eh?" John murmured in her ear.

In response Jean only hummed, her throat too tight to speak.

They were gathered together in his little office at the back of the pub, watching the flickering television screen and the scene of wonder that unfolded there. As it was the middle of the day the pub was empty; Jean wasn't even supposed to be working, but she had dropped by for a bite of lunch, and John had talked her into this, into coming with him to stand and watch as their new Princess was presented to the country for the first time. Perhaps the evening news might replay this footage later in the day, but Jean had no television to watch in the evening hours, and much as it wounded her she felt she ought to take a moment, ought to catch a glimpse of the Princess for herself, ought to behave as if nothing were amiss, while her heart was breaking.

They were standing together, Lucien and his daughter, at the gates of the castle, allowing the journalists and the cameramen jostling them the chance to take in the sight of their kingdom's future. It was difficult to tell from the grainy black-and-white picture, but Jean was almost certain that Lucien's fine suit would have been navy; he always favored navy. He was strong and handsome and smiling widely, at ease with the attention and his own power. If the Princess was less confident she did a good job hiding it; her back was straight, her chin held high. The dress she wore was plain but pretty, showed off the figure of a young woman recovered from childbirth and blooming. She wore her hair tied back from her face, but even through the television screen Jean could tell that hair would be black as night and shining in the afternoon sun. Lucien kept his hand at the small of his daughter's back, spoke to her softly now and again; Jean could see his lips moving, though she could not hear the words.

_That's her, _Jean thought faintly, staring at that pretty girl, and the bundle of white blankets she cradled in her arms. _Lucien's daughter, and his granddaughter, safe and here with him. The girl must favor her mother…_

It was that thought, as much as anything else, that threatened to bring tears to her eyes. _I fell in love with the wrong girl, and I lost her; _Lucien had loved another woman once, had loved her enough to risk his father's displeasure and his own status as heir apparent to marry a foreigner. There was no denying this love of his, when he stood beside his daughter, who was as proud and tall as any child of his could hope to be; they had each given a little of themselves to her, Lucien and the woman who had been his wife, had each of them poured their love and their hope and a little bit of their souls into a new life, and here she stood, beautiful and brave, the evidence of Lucien's love for her mother. There would be no such monument to the love Lucien had carried for Jean; perhaps, she thought then, the two loves did not rival one another at all. Perhaps the affection he'd felt for her could not hold a candle to the love he'd felt before, perhaps she had done herself a favor, in leaving before she found out the truth for herself.

Whatever he had felt for her, however much of his heart he might have been willing to give her, he was hers no longer, and there was not one single thing Jean could cling to, not one physical reminder of the time she'd spent in his arms, the hope that had begun to blossom between them, the dream that had changed her life forever. Only her memories remained, and even those would fade in time.

"The castle has announced that the Princess Li has chosen to accept her birthright, and the responsibilities that go with it," a voice echoed from the television. "She will give her patronage to noble causes, and become a fixture of royal life. Princess Li is now the kingdom's heir apparent, and her daughter, Princess Lin, is second in line to the throne. The Princess's decision not to abdicate her responsibilities has come as a relief to some, who worried what would become of the kingdom after King Lucien's reign."

"And cost me ten quid," John grumbled. Apparently satisfied with what he'd seen of the royal family he reached out, and turned off the television. Though a part of Jean's heart wanted to protest, wanted to stand there drinking in the sight of Lucien's face, she kept her mouth shut, and did not speak of her own personal grief.

"I was dead certain he'd announce a marriage by Christmas. And now that his girl's come home, he'll never get married, you mark my words."

"You seem awfully sure of that," Jean answered, trying to keep her tone light, crossing her arms over her chest and hoping that none of her sorrow showed on her face.

"He lost his wife in the war," John pointed out gently, "same as you lost your husband. And you're not in any rush to get married, are you, Jeannie? I think you'd understand better than anyone."

His quiet observation left her momentarily speechless, for he had unknowingly struck on the truth. Yes, Jean understood Lucien and his heart, perhaps better than anyone else in the world, for he had been hers, once. But she could hardly tell John that, and so she only smiled sadly, and turned away.

* * *

"I think that was a great success, Your Majesty," Alice told him. Her tone did not quite reach the level one might call cheerful, but it came as close as it ever did with her. They were enjoying a bit of tea in Lucien's sitting room following the interminable appearance Lucien and Li had made in front of the press; he had gathered them together, Matthew and Alice and Li, to enjoy one another's company as much as to celebrate. As time wore on Li would be taking on more responsibilities, and he wanted her to know these people, and to trust them, even if she could not entirely understand them yet. A tutor had been found, to help Li with her English, and though she was coming along well it would be quite some time before she was able to converse as fully as Lucien knew she would have liked. But she was a diligent student, and what time she did not spend on studying she spent shadowing her father. There was a great deal for her to learn, and Li was hungry for all of it. That trait she had inherited from him, Lucien knew, and he was glad of it.

"And you did very well, Your Highness," she added with a fleeting smile for Li.

"It was not so bad," Li ventured haltingly. She had settled herself in an armchair, with Lin nestled in the crook of her arm, and a soft smile on her face. Though several members of the household - and even the PM himself - had suggested to Lucien, more than once, that the Princess really ought to have a nanny Li had remained firm in her conviction that she raise her child herself, and Lucien rather agreed with her on that score. When they sat together in his suite in the morning Lucien would explain to Li what he was reading, and she would sit with her daughter in her arms, hanging on his every word. The tutor had grown accustomed to the presence of a baby during their sessions, and all in all Lucien thought things were going quite well as they were. Li was happy, Lin was happy, _Lucien_ was happy, and they were all of them together, and he could think of nothing better.

"The people are happy to have you home, Your Highness," Alice told her, "and they will love you, as they love your father."

Li's brow furrowed - perhaps some of the words had gone over her head, or simply been delivered too quickly for her to follow - and so Lucien translated for her in a soft voice.

When she understood what had been said she smiled at him, and then turned back to Alice.

"It is easy, to love my father," she said, her tone full of affection for him.

A gruff sound that might have been a laugh left Matthew then, and Lucien turned to him with his eyebrow raised.

"You think I'm not lovable?" he asked, leaning back in his own armchair, a cup of tea in his hands and a certain sense of delight filling him as he looked around at those who had gathered with him, these people he loved so well. He could think of no better way to pass an afternoon, and counted himself quite lucky.

"I think some of us love you more than others," Matthew grumbled.

And it was strange, but in that moment Lucien could not help but feel as if there were something else Matthew was trying to tell him. As if Matthew were cross with him, for some reason, as if there was something, something to do with love-

"Matthew?" Lucien asked, the mood in the room shifting suddenly from one of jocular celebration to a nervous sort of tension.

"Matthew, don't," Alice started to say, but her attempt to keep Matthew quiet only spurred Lucien's curiosity; what did Alice know that he didn't? What could possibly bother Matthew, and yet in Alice's view be inappropriate for him to mention? Had they been talking about him when he wasn't present, and what on earth had they been saying? Across the low coffee table Li was watching him curiously; the conversation had quite passed her by, but Lucien's heart had begun to pound and he felt he could not stop the conversation to bring her up to speed.

"I think it's time someone said it," Matthew said to Alice, and then he turned back to his king. "You and I have known one another for a long time, Your Majesty," he said then. "And I have served both you and your father without complaint. If this is enough for you to throw me out of the castle, so be it."

"I don't understand," Lucien started to say, but Matthew was determined to speak his piece.

"Your daughter has come home," he said. "You have no need of another heir. The succession has been dealt with, and you've never been more popular. But there is a woman out there who loves you, and you have left her all alone."

Lucien paled at his old friend's words; of course he had no intention of firing Matthew for having spoken the truth, but he was still rattled, and somewhat wounded to think that Matthew could hold such a low opinion of him, given everything.

"Jean chose to leave," he said, somewhat confused by the turn the conversation had taken. "She didn't want-"

"She didn't want to threaten your reputation or the future of this country." Technically it was a gross breach of etiquette for anyone to interrupt the king when he was speaking, but it did not even occur to Lucien to reprimand his old friend, for Lucien had thrown all rules of etiquette by the wayside the moment he assumed the throne. "I don't think there's a risk of harm to either, if you brought her back now, and frankly I don't understand why you haven't thought of it yourself."

"It's out of the question," Lucien protested. Yes, he had no need of more heirs, not now, but there was still the matter of Jean's first marriage, the matter of her son, the matter of her leaving; those circumstances had not, and would not ever change.

"Is it?" Matthew asked. "You're the head of state. I know it doesn't come naturally to you, but try to think like a politician for once. Right now, you're the kingdom's hero. You're a soldier, a survivor, the man who brought them hope. You've championed the common people at every turn, and they love you."

"They love the _story_ of you," Alice chimed in. "Everyone loves a good story, and yours is...quite compelling."

"The Prime Minister wasn't on your side before," Matthew bore in relentlessly. "He wanted an heir. Well, now he has one. Two, actually. And you're the people's king. If you go to him now, and _tell _him what you want, why should he stop you?"

"I doubt he's changed his mind-"

"Are you worried about Jack?"

Lucien stared at his friend, feeling as if he'd just been struck with a brick. The conversation had spiraled so quickly he could hardly keep up, and he had not anticipated being faced with such matters on this sunny day. _Yes, _Lucien was worried about Jean's son; he had mentioned the boy to Matthew once, and his old friend's face had gone grim, and he had known then that there was more to the story than he realized.

"A bit of bad press won't be enough to stop you, not if you've got the government on your side. And you will, if you speak to Sir Patrick. You're the King, for God's sake, and you've got more power than you realize. Why not use it?"

Though Lucien did not enjoy being lectured like a child he could see the right of it, could see that Matthew was thinking only of his king's happiness, and that he had hit upon the truth. With public opinion in his favor and no need of an heir he could present the kingdom with a love story they would relish, he knew. He could bring Jean home, as he so dearly longed to do, could love her and cherish her, for all the rest of his days. He could wake beside her in the morning, and walk with her through the glasshouse he had built for her, could live out his life in peace, surrounded by his girls, all of them. Jean and Li would warm to one another, he knew, and their home could be a happy one. If only he could get Sir Patrick onside.

"What makes you so certain that Sir Patrick would agree?"

"He's a politician," Alice sniffed. "If we let word get out that you had fallen in love but Sir Patrick put a stop to it, he could find his position in danger. It could change the face of politics in this country. He's not a stupid man; he knows how to protect himself, and he'll want to."

"Even if he does agree, what makes you think _Jean_ would accept?"

Lucien's heart was racing. It was not that he did not believe Matthew, or even that he thought his cause was futile; in fact, a wild hope had sprung up within him, and he was ready in that moment to march straight to Sir Patrick to plead his case. But before he did such a thing, before he jumped in with both feet, he felt he had to ask this last question, for it was the one that mattered most. What Lucien wanted, what Sir Patrick would agree to, amounted to nothing more than ashes if Jean remained firm in her conviction that staying away from him was the right choice. Lucien did not even know where she had gone, nor how to go about finding her, and Jean had been away from him for months. Perhaps she had made a new life for herself, he thought then, doubt beginning to creep in on his joy; perhaps she was happier now than she had been before, and wanted no part of him.

"I think she'd agree because I saw her just last month," Matthew told him, and Lucien felt his mouth drop open in shock; _how could he have hidden this from me? _He wondered, petulant and wounded. "I've seen her several times, and she's miserable and missing you. You have a chance, Your Majesty," Matthew leaned towards him, his hands resting on his cane, his expression earnest, "to make her happy, to make yourself happy. Take it."

_Take it. _It sounded so easy, when Matthew put it like that. Could it really be so simple; could he really _take this chance, _speak to Sir Patrick, bring him around, and go racing off after Jean?

_She's miserable and missing you._

Those words echoed in his mind, for despite the joy he felt at having Li home with him at last sorrow had lingered in his heart, a grief borne of the absence of love. A love that Matthew was offering him now, a chance to change his future, and bring happiness to himself and the woman he loved most. A chance to make their dream come true.

_Can I take this chance? _He wondered, his mind racing as Alice and Matthew and Li sat still and watching him.

_I won't be able to live with myself if I don't. _


	49. Chapter 49

_4 December 1959_

It had been remarkably easy, in the end, bring Sir Patrick around to his way of thinking. Lucien had walked into their meeting with his back straight and his voice firm, trying to remind Sir Patrick - and himself - that he was _king, _and Parliament could not stand in his way, not now, not when it came to this; despite his show of confidence, however, he had not been certain whether his plan would succeed. There had been more than one damning piece of evidence in the article Sir Patrick had produced when last they'd discussed the prospect of Lucien marrying Jean, and so far only one of those obstacles had been dealt with. It was the most pressing, to be sure, but the circumstances of Jean's first marriage and her troublesome son had not changed, and would not ever.

And yet, when Lucien laid his case before the Prime Minister, Sir Patrick had only laughed, and capitulated at once. _You're fantastically popular just now, _Patrick had told him. _If we try to stand in the way of your happiness I think our constituents might just come and string us all up by our toes. You have two heirs, now, and the Princess is young enough; she may marry again and give you more. Mrs. Beazley is a fine woman, and if you are set on her, well...I'll not stand in your way, Your Majesty. Not this time._

_And that article you showed me? _Lucien had pressed, hardly daring to believe his luck.

_I can't guarantee that some of that information won't make its way out into the public sphere at some point, _Sir Patrick had allowed, _but with the backing of Parliament it need not destroy you. You must understand, sir, I only objected to this match previously because you lacked an heir. That has been remedied. I'll support you now, whatever you decide._

A plan had been made; much as Lucien wanted to simply stride out of the castle and straight to where Jean was waiting for him Matthew had counseled him to prudence. _Go tomorrow, when the sun is up, _Matthew had told him. _I'll drive you myself. But you need to decide how to explain this to her. Jean thinks there's no hope for you two. You have to show her that there is._

_How? _Lucien had asked himself; _how can I convince her that everything is different now, when so much remains the same? How can I show her that this dream of ours can come true? What would make her believe me?_

It had taken some time for him to find the answers to those questions, but in the end he had, and with a plan now firmly in mind there was nothing for him to do now but wait, to hold on through the long dark hours of the night and into the brilliance of the dawn, to think of his Jean, and how he loved her, and how dearly he wished that he might be able to hold her once more.

To that end, then, he had carried himself down the glasshouse. Though winter was threatening outside beneath those high arching beams the air was warm and humid, the plants glorious and green, surrounding him with the lush fragrance of growth. He walked along the little paths there beneath the twinkling fairy lights, the sky black and fathomless above him, and he thought of Jean. He thought of her laugh, and the softness of her hands. He thought of her voice, and how gently she spoke to him, thought of the curve of her hip and her practical wisdom. He thought of her eyes, and her smile, thought of how completely he adored her, how desperately he wanted her. The dream of Jean; she had been wrested from him once, but now it seemed as if she was once more within his grasp, and there was nothing he wanted more to see her, to hold her, to make her happy, as she had made him. She deserved that happiness, he thought, more than anything else; she deserved to taste the bliss of satisfaction, rather than the bitterness of defeat which had so often been her lot in life. She was a marvel, an angel, a goddess, and he longed to worship her.

"Papa?"

Li's voice echoed softly through the still air, and Lucien smiled, for while he had intended to be alone this evening he was always glad of his daughter's company.

"Here," he called back, and in a moment she emerged onto the path before him, little Lin cradled in a cloth sling around her chest.

"I thought I might find you here," she told him. Her English was progressing nicely, but she almost exclusively spoke Mandarin to her father, and Lucien did not mind a bit, for it gave him the chance to practice, and Li's voice so reminded him of her mother's.

"Am I that predictable, my darling?" he asked her ruefully, tucking his hands in his pockets as she came to stand beside him.

"If you aren't in your room, then you are always here," Li told him with a little shrug. "I think you must have a fondness for the flowers."

_Not only the flowers, _Lucien thought, but even as the words drifted through his mind it occurred to him that he planned to make a rather titanic shift in the circumstances of his little family, and he had not yet spoken of it to Li. It was the worst sort of oversight, he thought, and so he sought to correct it at once.

"There's something I need to tell you," he said. "Will you sit with me?"

There was a little bench beside the path, and when Lucien gestured towards it Li nodded, and followed him. They sat together, and Lucien leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, clasped his hands together and tried to come up with some way to explain all the thoughts that ran riot through his mind. He could not seem to find the words; how could he begin? How could he tell Li of his love for Jean, how he had lost her, when Li's own mother was dead and buried, a grief that should have followed him all the rest of his days? How could he begin to explain the political machinations that had pulled Jean from his side without completely terrifying Li in the process? The rules that constrained him would constrain her as well, and he did not want her to regret her decision to stay with him.

"They say no one else is allowed to come here." He had been quiet too long, and Li had, rather insightfully, found her own to direct the conversation. "I heard the maids talking about it. They say it's just for you. But you've never turned me away."

"No, and I never would, my darling. This castle is your home, and you may come and go as you wish. Whatever is mine is yours." No, he had not ever stopped Li coming to the glasshouse; he liked to see her walking among the flowers, with Lin in her arms, liked to see his girls happy and well. There was no one else he would trust with this place; the servants were terrible gossips and the nobles did not deserve such beauty. Li, though, Li was welcome, for he loved her.

"Then why?" she asked him softly. "Why not share this with everyone else?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about." _No better time than now, _he told himself. _Just get it over with. _"There was a woman. A housekeeper here. Her name was Jean."

Li's eyes widened slightly as he spoke and understanding began to dawn, but she did not interrupt him, and for that he was very grateful.

"She was...is, the loveliest woman. She was very kind to me. She made me feel at home here, when I thought I never could. I had this place built for her, because she loves flowers."

His voice deserted him, then; he had built the glasshouse as a monument to a love that could never be, but now that love was once more within his grasp, and his very bones ached with want of it.

"Where is she now?" Li asked him softly when he had been quiet too long.

"She had to go away," he said simply. "I loved her, very much, and I wanted her to be my wife. But you had not come home, my darling, and I did not have an heir. And Jean could not give me one. And so she left, so that I could marry someone who could. She left because she knew that I loved her, but I could not marry her."

"Oh, _papa,_" Li said softly, sadly. "It's my fault she had to leave you. If I'd come back sooner-"

"No, my darling," he cut her off sharply. "No. None of this is your fault. You've done absolutely nothing wrong."

Li did not look as if she believed him, but she did not press the issue, either.

"Is it too late?" she asked him. "Is she too far away?"

"As it happens," Lucien answered, "no. I met with Sir Patrick today. Now that you have decided to stay, the politicians have agreed to support me, should I choose to marry Jean. I am going to see her tomorrow, to ask her to come back home with me."

"Tomorrow?" Li repeated faintly. She was swaying absently on the bench, lulling Lin into dreams with the steady movements of her body, but her brow was furrowed, her expression somewhat anxious. She had every right to be, Lucien knew; it had been less than three months since Li had arrived in the castle, and so much had changed in that time. She was still grieving the loss of her husband, was adjusting to life with a new baby, was learning a new language and a whole host of customs and traditions that must have seemed incredibly strange to her mind. There was so much change, all around her, and Lucien had just sprung another monumental change upon her. A new woman, a stranger, someone Li had never met and could not even imagine, would be coming to the castle, taking hold of Lucien's arm, joining their family unit; no doubt the thought was a daunting one.

"Yes," he said, and tried to measure his next words carefully. "I think that you will like her, very much. Jean didn't grow up in a castle like this. She isn't royalty, like me. She's just...she's just a very kind, very good woman. It was her idea that I go to Shanghai to see you, when I first learned where you were. If it weren't for her, I might have only sent you a letter, and our whole lives might have been very different. She has children of her own, two sons around the same age as you. And I think...I hope, that you might become friends, in time."

For several long moments Li was quiet, thinking over everything Lucien had told her; though the silence was tearing at him Lucien bit his tongue, for his daughter was a thoughtful sort of girl, and he knew better than to rush her. When she had something to say to him, she would say it, and the best thing for both of them would be to simply wait it out.

"I was worried, when I first came here, that you would have a wife. That there would be a woman here who hated me, because you were married to my mother first. I worried that she would not accept me. But you did not have a wife, and I...I've had you all to myself, these last few months. And I have enjoyed it so much. Just being with you, watching you with Lin. You have brought me such joy."

She turned to him then, their knees bumping together as she sought to look him in the eye. "But you have been so sad, papa," she told him, and the sincerity of her tone nearly knocked the wind from him. He had believed, before now, that he had succeeded in keeping his grief hidden from her, but he saw now how foolish he had been; Li was a clever girl, and an observant one.

"Will it make you happy, to marry your Jean?"

_Will it make you happy? _

_Whatever you decide._

_It was only a dream, Lucien. _

_You're always so sure you know best._

_A man like you can't marry someone like me._

_I love you. God help me, Lucien, but I love you._

The words bounced round and round his mind, fragments of a hundred remembered conversations. The scent of her perfume, the softness of her hair, her palm against his cheek. Would it make him happy, to hold her hand, to fall asleep with his arms around her, to live out the rest of his day with her beside him?

"It would," he said simply. "I love you, and I love Lin, and I am so glad to have our family whole, but-"

"You love her, too. A piece of your heart is missing."

"Yes."

The sentiment might have seemed strange, perhaps too insightful, coming from any other girl of her age, but Li was not just any other girl. Li had known starvation and fear, deprivation and calamity. At twenty-two years old Li was already a widow and a mother, and she had seen more of life than most. Even now, she had seen right to the very heart of his dilemma, and understood at once what it was he was feeling, what he needed.

"Then I am happy for you, papa," she said. "I hope that you find what you seek tomorrow."

"So do I, my darling," Lucien said, throwing his arm around her shoulders and leaning back against the bench as she nestled into his embrace. "So do I."

"And I think I shall have to thank her," Li murmured. "For sending you to me. And for this place; it is so beautiful, and I am happy here."

With Li's head tucked beneath his chin Lucien's tears fell with no one to witness them; he drew in a ragged breath, and kissed the top of her head. _Please, god, _he prayed for the first time in nearly two decades, _let us all be happy here. _


	50. Chapter 50

_5 December 1959_

The pub always did good trade on Saturdays. It was a respectable sort of place, and thanks to Jean's indefatigable spirit their kitchen enjoyed a good reputation in the village. Single men came early on Saturdays, to sip pints and talk about the ponies. Married men came in the afternoons, to talk about their wives over whiskey sours. And at lunchtime every table was full; some of the customers for Saturday lunch were women, gaggles of them with parcels at their feet, sipping water and nibbling on the good clean food Jean provided for them. The pub was loud, on Saturdays, full of laughter and friendly conversation; John had recently installed a jukebox, and it played almost nonstop the whole day through, coin after coin clinking merrily down the slot, heralding the beginning of another familiar tune. Jean's hands were never idle, but she was not without help; there were three girls John employed as waitresses on Saturdays, who ran plates of food and helped Jean in the kitchen, and their smiles and cheerful chatter always helped the time to pass quickly.

This Saturday was no different than any other; there were racks of bread going in the oven as fast as they came out, and a big pot of stew simmering on the stove, and the last of the chicken and roast potatoes was warming next to a fresh batch of mince pies. Jean was happy, in the only way she could be happy these days; it was not an overwhelming joy, not the sort of delight that came bubbling up from the very heart of her, but it was a simple kind of happiness, a serene sort of contentment in the knowledge that just now things were as good as they could be, or ever would be again. If there were other things that would have made her happier, other dreams she had once harbored in her heart, Jean was learning to let them go, and make do with what happiness she could find here in this place.

She was just crimping the edges of another row of mince pies when the door banged open behind her. Jean did not immediately turn; it was either John or one of the girls, and they'd let her know what they needed. If it was John he'd call out an order and Jean would call back, already turning to make up another plate. If it was one of the girls, she'd point her towards the nearest plate, hot and ready for Mr. McGuiness at table six.

But no shouted words came from behind her, nor did she hear the sound of footfalls or the tinkling laugh of the waitresses. Concerned, then, Jean did turn, and found John staring at her, pale-faced and wild-eyed.

"Everything all right?" she asked him, fear beginning to chip away at the bubble of contentment she'd drawn around herself. Everything had been going so well, and the lunch rush was nearly over, and the pub was a warm place, a safe place, a place where bad things did not happen, but _something _had put that look on John's face, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what that something was. Not a brawl, she didn't think; she'd heard none of the shouting or thumping of bodies bouncing off furniture she'd expect from a brawl, and besides it was too early in the day for such theatrics. This was something else, something that had shocked _John, _a lifelong publican and thoroughly unflappable sort of man.

"There's someone here to see you," he said, and his voice was hoarse and strained. "I think you'd best come on out, Jeannie."

The fear that had just begun to simmer within her grew into a blaze, then; who could have come for her? Not Eadie; John would not have looked at her that way if it was only her sister. Nor Matthew, she thought; John liked to tease her when he came round. He was hopeful for her, where Matthew was concerned, no matter how many times Jean told him that Matthew was no more than a friend. So who, then? She had very few friends in town, and John knew them all, and they would give him no cause for alarm. What could frighten him so?

_Christopher, _she thought then, and terror set her hands to shaking. Jean's oldest boy was in Korea, and she'd not had a letter from him for two weeks now. Soldiers had come for her once, had pulled their shiny car to a stop on her dusty drive, and walked up to her front door with their hats in their hands. Soldiers like that, in pristine uniforms with their heads bowed, had struck terror in the hearts of many a woman in those days, and Jean had not forgotten the way her very soul had shattered with their arrival. Had they come for her again, come to tell her that her boy wasn't coming home? Her Christopher, her beautiful boy, the son most like her in appearance and demeanor, the son dearest to her heart by virtue of his steadfast goodness?

_Oh God, no,_ she thought, even as she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried across the kitchen. John fell into step behind her unspeaking, such silence frightening in a man who was usually so full of chatter. Did he know what waited for her, out there in the dining room? Did he know the grief that hung just over her head?

The dining room was quiet, as she stepped out from the kitchen. There were three men standing together in the middle of the pub, and every eye seemed to be on them, watching them in apprehensive silence. Two of them wore the navy uniforms of soldiers, and while that alone might have convinced Jean that her terrible suspicions were correct, the face of the third man had her fear fleeing in favor of confusion in a moment.

"Prime Minister?" she said as she approached Sir Patrick, utterly bemused.

_What on earth? _She thought as she made her way towards him. This was most unusual; though they had grown rather accustomed to one another during her years in the castle the Prime Minister was hardly an acquaintance, and Jean could not reckon why he had done this thing, come here to see her. There was no service she could provide for him, and no words she wished to say to him; the last time she'd heard his voice he'd broken her heart clean in two, shattered her every dream and left her bereft and lonesome, though he had not known at the time that she was listening. Why then should he be here, now? _Oh, _she wished he hadn't come; everyone was watching her, thirty people at least staring at her appraisingly, as if all of them were wondering what sort of woman she was, that the Prime Minister himself should visit a somewhat ramshackle pub in a tiny village just to ask for her by name. Oh, the whispers would be unbearable after this; _how am I going to explain this to John? _She wondered. Jean had not told her employer where she'd come from, and he had not asked, but she realized that now she would have no choice but to tell him, he wouldn't rest until he'd had the truth from her.

"Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick said, reaching out to shake her hand. "You're looking well."

_Oh, _Jean wished he hadn't said that; they'd all be talking about this for months, how the Prime Minister and their Mrs. Beazley were so well acquainted with one another.

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?"

* * *

"Is there something I can do for you, sir?" Jean asked the man politely.

John was watching her, hardly daring to breathe. The Prime bloody Minister, here, in his pub, asking for his cook! It made no sense, and a thousand questions were swirling through his mind. He had known, the moment he met her, that Jean Beazley was running from something; she'd had something of the look of a frightened deer about her, her eyes cast over her shoulder and her mouth full of excuses, if not outright lies. Before now he'd assumed it was a lover's quarrel, a man who had treated her harshly whose clutches she'd longed to escape. Jean had seemed sad enough, he'd thought, and so he had asked no questions. She was a fine cook, and a fine woman, and it didn't matter, he'd thought, where she'd come from.

Only it mattered now because Sir Patrick Tyneman was standing in his pub with two armed guards. _Is she in trouble? _He wondered. _How the bloody hell does she know him? _Could it be, he asked himself, that perhaps Jean was more special than she'd ever let on, that she had enjoyed a life of privilege and status in the capitol and left it behind for the anonymity of the village after some sort of calamity? And if that were true, what the bloody hell had she _done? _

"Actually, Mrs. Beazley, there's something I'd like to do for you," Sir Patrick said.

As John watched Jean's face went pale, and her hands twisted anxiously in her apron. _What on earth? _

"I'm sure you've been keeping up with the news," Sir Patrick continued, and Jean nodded, silently.

_What news? _John wondered. Was it Korea? Or the miner's strike? Or the expansion of the national health service? What could possibly have been happening in the news that would have any sort of bearing on a woman like Jean, a simple, quiet woman who kept to herself and did not interfere with the affairs of her neighbors?

"Circumstances have changed," Sir Patrick said.

Jean's mouth fell open as if she meant to ask him a question, but she promptly closed it again, and still John watched her, along with every patron of the pub, each of them hanging on every word that passed between those two people in the center of the room.

"I've come here to tell you, Mrs. Beazley, that I'll not stand in your way."

A small, hitching gasp escaped her, and Jean lifted her hand to her lips, her eyes round and just beginning to shine with unshed tears. _Stand in your way? _John wondered. What sort of business was she in, that the Prime Minister would take an interest? And why did she look as if she were about to faint dead away on the spot?

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" Sir Patrick asked her, not unkindly.

"Yes," Jean breathed in response.

"If you still wish to...well. You have my support, and the support of Parliament. You can do as you wish."

John was not a man easily shocked. He'd seen all sorts, during his many years of work in this place. Blood and sex and whiskey and food and fights and kisses and petty council politicians, the pub had played host to all of it, and he had taken everything in his stride. This, though, this was a bridge too far. _Jean_, bloody _Jean, _that beautiful woman who'd served in his kitchen for all these months, who John counted a friend, was tangled up in something John could not even begin to understand, and he liked it not one bit. What could Jean possibly want, possibly hope to do, that would require the approval of Parliament? Just who had John opened his doors to?

"Thank you, Prime Minister," Jean said, a bit wetly, and strange but she seemed almost miserable, as if the unquestioning support of the whole of Parliament itself was not enough to make her happy. "I'm afraid it's too late-"

"There's someone outside who wants to speak with you, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick told her with a gentle smile. "I think you'll find it's not too late at all."

"He's...he's here?" she asked him faintly, swaying slightly on the spot. There was such naked hope on her face, such desperate longing in her eyes, and still John watched her, unblinking, eager to see how this would all unfold. Who could possibly be outside? John had always enjoyed a good story, and he had a feeling that once the sense of betrayal left him this would be the best one he'd ever heard.

"He is. Shall I send him in?"

There was a moment of silence, then. Every soul in that pub seemed to be whispering _yes, yes, let us see him, let us learn what this is all about._ The energy of the room was focused entirely, overwhelmingly, on Jean's delicate shoulders. Something monumental was in the offing, of that there could be no doubt, but what was it? What would make her tremble so, what could she long for so completely, what could be significant enough to require the Prime Minister himself to make it happen?

"I think you know what he means to say, if I do," Sir Patrick said when Jean did not immediately answer him. "And I think you and I both want to spare him any sort of public embarrassment. Shall I send him in, Mrs. Beazley, or shall I take my leave?"

"He still...truly, he still wants…" Jean was staring up at the Prime Minister beseechingly, unable to finish her question, though it seemed there was no need. Sir Patrick reached out and took her hand, and gave it a gentle sort of pat.

_This will be all anyone talks about for the next year, _John thought. Such things did not happen in this quiet little village; he had believed, before now, that those politicians in the capitol had quite forgotten this village existed. And yet there the Prime Minister stood, in John's own pub, talking to his cook.

"He does," Sir Patrick answered. "Do you?"

* * *

"Do you?"

The world was spinning beneath Jean's feet, her heart racing in her chest. _Do you? _

She knew what it was Sir Patrick was telling her. The king was outside, waiting, waiting for some sign from her, waiting to walk into this place and ask her to marry him, with Parliament's blessing. Somehow he had found a way, brought those surly old men on board and secured a future for them both. _Lucien,_ and _here; _he had come all this way just to see her, had sent Sir Patrick to her first knowing he could not secure her acceptance until she knew for certain that there was a way ahead for them. He had come to her, that man she adored, that man she loved, that man she longed for with every piece of her heart, had come to this humble place despite the dignity of his station, had come to _her, _as if she were the royalty and he the lowly servant. Even now he was outside, waiting for her, _waiting, _and not rushing, giving her the opportunity to make this choice for herself. If he walked through those doors now he meant to propose to her, here, in front of all of these people, meant to make his love of her public, meant to declare, for all to hear, that she was the one for him, and no other.

But only if she would have him, only if it was what she wanted. Jean hung there, suspended in this moment so full of possibility. She could have him now, truly, could take his hand and kiss him, could be his wife, his queen, could see her whole life change in the blinking of an eye. Everything that she had been would pass away, and a new dawn would break, a new life stretching out before her. Though it was courteous of Lucien to give her the chance to send him away, the gesture still spoke of his reckless impulsivity; she would have to make a choice, right _now, _this very instant, a choice that would thrust her and her family into the public eye, a choice that would change her in a moment from a widowed cook to royalty. Part of her hated him for it, for forcing her hand in such a way, but it was only a very small part. The larger part of her heart cried out with love of him, relieved and overjoyed to think that he still loved her, still cared for her, still wanted her badly enough to take such a risk. He had promised her, once, that he had a plan, that all would work out for the good. Now it seemed he meant to keep his promise.

_Do you?_

Did she wish to marry him? To hold him, to love him, to stand by him, forever, no matter the trials ahead? Did she want this life for herself, could she embrace these changes, was she brave enough to take the hand he offered her?

"Yes," she gasped before she could think better of it, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "Yes, please."

Nevermind that there were people watching. Nevermind that she had not seen him for months. Nevermind that she still worried what might happen when Jack's troubled past came to light, nevermind that she was not certain she could comport herself with the sophistication required of a queen, nevermind the machinations of the politicians and everything else that threatened her happiness. Lucien was here, and he wanted her; Lucien had come for her, against all reason, and she could not, would not send him away, not now. There would not be another chance for her to feel this love, this joy, this hope, and she would not turn away from it now.

"Good girl," Sir Patrick said, beaming at her broadly. He snapped his fingers and one of the soldiers dashed out the door, gone to fetch their king, to bring Jean's man back to her arms at last.

* * *

A murmur went through the dining room, as the soldier went marching out the door, gone to fetch this mysterious man who had come for Jean. Though John could not even begin to imagine who this man might have been - this man who sent the Prime Minister to run errands for him, this man who brought tears to Jean's eyes, this man who set her hands to trembling - he fancied he had a fair idea what the man meant to ask her. The hitch in her breath, the way the PM spoke of avoiding embarrassment, the way Jean's voice had shaken when she said _he still wants..._when that man came walking through the doors, John had a fair idea what question would be asked, and what answer would be given, and he knew his kegs were about to run dry.

And he was pleased for her, truly. Jean was the best of women, kind and clever, gentle and strong; he had come to know her, and to treasure her friendship. And though another man, working in close proximity with such a woman, might have felt more than friendship for her, John never did, and she had seemed relieved by his lack of romantic inclination. Jean was the best of women, but John had already had his love, and lost her. They'd shared that in common, John and Jean, the ache of widowhood, the ever-present sting of grief; it had formed common ground between them, enabled them to get on quite well with one another. There would never be another woman for John to love as he had loved his late wife, but it seemed that Jean had found a man for herself, and if she was happy to accept him, then John would be happy for her.

The door swung wide and the soldier came marching back through accompanied by several other men. A gasp rippled through the pub then, the sudden scraping of chairs and rushing of feet as patrons rose from their seats, craning their heads and whispering furiously to one another. The cause for the commotion was not immediately apparent to John; the soldier leading the little group was the same one who'd dashed out only a moment before, an inconspicuous, unremarkable lad. Behind him there limped another soldier, a man that John recognized with a start. The man with the cane, that was Matthew, the fella who had come to visit Jean so many times. For a moment John wondered if perhaps it was this Matthew who had come to claim her hand - he was a good bloke, as far as John could see, and the only person who had ever come to see Jean at the pub - but in the next moment he saw who walked behind Matthew, and realized his mistake.

"Bloody hell."

The whispered words slipped past his lips, unheard by anyone else. It did not matter; everyone in that room shared his shock, his confusion in that instant. For there, just behind Matthew, tall and proud, there walked _the king. _

_The bloody king! _He was handsome and straight-backed, his greying beard neatly trimmed, his navy suit finely tailored, his eyes fixed wholly, completely, on Jean. His face was undeniable; he'd been all over the telly for the last few months, giving speeches, talking about the arrival of his daughter and her reinstatement as princess. In truth he was the most recognizable man in the kingdom; the wives liked to talk about how handsome he was, and the men liked to talk about how they appreciated having a soldier for a king. There was no living person in their country who would not know that man on sight, and yet his appearance in such a place as this was most unheard of. To see him venture from the castle, guarded only by a handful of soldiers, walking through a pub crowded with people, was to John's mind rather like seeing a dragon walking along the high street.

_The bloody king! Is in my bloody pub! _

Nothing like this had _ever_ happened in the village before, and never would again.

The king was walking straight towards Jean, as if he did not see that there was a room full of people around him, on their feet and craning their necks for a better view of him. There were perhaps eight guards gathered around him, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd, but the king was focused solely on John's cook. The Prime Minister stepped aside, grinning, and Jean was left alone in the center of the dining room, an island in a sea of faces. She had never looked more beautiful, John thought, than she did in that moment; she wore a pale pink blouse, and a tight brown skirt under her white half-apron, her chestnut hair perfectly curled, though greying at the temples. Her hands were caught together in front of her, winding anxiously around one another, but her face; _oh, _her face was a picture of loveliness, her grey eyes bright and fixed on the king, silver tears spilling down her pale cheeks. Her lip did not tremble, nor did her shoulders shake with sobs, but still those tears flowed, until at last the king came to a stop before her.

"Hello, my darling," he said softly.

A gasp seemed to echo through the pub, the sound of thirty people taking a deep breath as one, all of them holding it, listening with every fiber of their being, watching these two people with eyes unblinking. _My darling, _he had called her, and with those two words revealed the truth of his intentions, the depth of his connection to her. How a woman like Jean, a simple woman, a widow and a farmwife by her own admission, had come to know the king John could not say, though he imagined there was a good story there. What a picture they made, the noble king, the mighty soldier, the man who had rejected his life of privilege in order to serve others, and returned home at last to care for his people, this man who become a legend in their eyes, he stood before them now, facing a woman they counted as one of their own, a beautiful woman, and as he loved her so did they, for his sake.

"Lucien," Jean breathed, and tension crackled through the room like electricity. She had called him by his name, and in so doing cemented her place in all their hearts as the heroine of the romance, collecting her reward at last.

And John held his breath with the rest of them, waiting.

* * *

Lucien smiled, when she spoke his name, and that smile fell upon her like a strike of lightning, fierce and blinding and beautiful. She had not seen him for months, had believed him to beyond her grasp, had almost reconciled herself to the terrible loss of him, and yet he was here, now, smiling at her, and her heart was so full of joy she feared it must surely shatter in her chest.

"There's something I need to ask you," he told her then.

A small laugh escaped her, a ragged, choking thing; he looked so anxious, so apprehensive, as if _he_ were afraid of _her, _and she could not help but laugh, to think that this titan of a man could be afraid of her, to imagine that he could believe, even for a moment, that she might reject him, when she had told Sir Patrick to send him in, when she was watching him now with eyes full of love. She could not help but laugh to think that when the opportunity presented itself he had jumped in with both feet, eager as a schoolboy; that was her Lucien, her reckless man, and she loved him more than her own life.

"Ask me, then," she told him, giving him an encouraging little nod, and he grinned at her, bright-eyed and relieved.

"Right," he said. "I'll try to do this properly."

And then, right there, in full view of all and sundry, he hitched up his trouser legs and dropped to one knee. Right there, on the dusty floor of the pub, with all those people looking on, Jean's king did what no king had done before, or ever would again; he knelt before a woman with no title to her name, no land, no money, no status. He _knelt, _and in the kneeling Jean saw more than just a man committed to tradition; he was offering all of himself to her, humbly, and she loved him for it. Whispers flitted through the room like little birds on glittering wings, but Jean paid them no mind, for as he knelt Lucien reached into the pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a small black box.

"Jean," he said, opening the box and holding it up for her to see. "This was my mother's ring."

The tears fell harder, as she looked at him, her dear, sweet man, kneeling before her, offering her the ring that had belonged to his mother. His beloved mother, a queen who had, like Jean, been born without title, who had married a king for love; that ring was precious for more reasons than Jean could count, and Lucien offered it to her without reservation, along with his own beating heart.

"There is nothing I want more than for you to be my wife," he said, choking up just a little as he spoke that word _wife. _Jean heard the unshed tears in his voice and understood him; this was not the first time Lucien had asked for a woman's hand in marriage, and it would not be the first time Jean accepted a proposal. They both knew the risk they were taking, the heartbreak that might one day come for them, but they had both decided that the beauty of their love would be worth any price of grief. "Please, come home to me, my darling. Let me love you. Marry me, Jean."

_Come home, _he'd said, and those two words moved her more than any others ever could. _Home, _to the place where they'd met, the gardens and the battlements and the kitchen where they'd held one another, the place where they could be whole, and happy, together.

"Yes," Jean answered, though in truth he had not asked a question. She meant to tease him for it later, but they were both of them too raw, too hungry for one another in this moment, too vulnerable, too exposed, too desperate to be together for her to delay the moment of their joining for another second. Lucien reached for her trembling hand, and she gave it to him, watched as he gently kissed her palm, and then carefully pulled the ring from the box, sliding it on her finger. It settled into place like a key sliding into a lock, sealing their futures, joining their lives forever, _til death do us part. _For a moment Lucien knelt, staring up at her in awe and wonder, her hand held tight in his own, and in his face she saw reflected the light of love that swelled and burst within her own heart.

"You see, my darling?" he said softly. "Some dreams do come true."

_It was only a dream, _she had told him once, and that he had remembered those words and echoed them back to her now, that he had taken her dreams and made them a reality, each and every one, overwhelmed her most completely. it was a dream, that he should love her, that a king should come for her, in his finery, surrounded by his guards, and prostrate himself at her feet. It was a dream, that Lucien could love her as she loved him, that they could be together, and happy. It was the most beautiful dream, and Jean never wanted to wake.

"I love you, Lucien," she whispered, and in the next moment he was on his feet, and she was in his arms.

* * *

A raucous roar burst forth as the king vaulted to his feet and wrapped Jean in his arms. It was like something from a film, John thought, the way her arms slid round his neck, the way his lips crashed into hers, the way the pub patrons clapped their hands and stomped their feet and cheered. They were beautiful together, the handsome king and his lovely lady, clinging to one another, kissing one another fiercely, full of love and overjoyed by their new engagement, and the crowd delighted in their happiness. John's voice was the loudest of all; though he was not a man much given to sentiment he enjoyed a good story as much as the next man, and this was, he thought, the best story he'd ever heard. For a moment the king kissed his lady love passionately, desperately, but then he broke from her lips with a laugh, and lifted her clean off her feet, spun her in a circle while she held him tight and the crowd roared their applause.

What a sight they made, the handsome king and his beautiful lady. The soldier and the widow, two hearts who had known grief and yet found joy once again, with one another. The king's display of exuberance had won the hearts of the crowd, John knew, but it was what happened next that would stay with him forever, for as the king set Jean back on her feet she reached up and cradled his cheek in her palm. Their eyes locked on one another, and in their gaze John could see their hope, their relief, their genuine love of one another. Yes, Jean had been running when she came to this place, John understood that now, but she no longer needed to hide; she had everything she wanted, and her happiness warmed his heart.

"Drinks all around!" He roared, and the cheers of the crowd, which had faded, redoubled in an instant. The waitresses were wiping tears from their cheeks and the men who still had beer in their glasses raised them in toast to the king. The king leaned down and brushed his lips against Jean's blushing cheek, before slinging his arm low around her waist and turning to face the crowd. He raised his hand for quiet, and a hush fell as everyone watched him, standing there with his arm around Jean, his ring on her finger.

_She's going to be the bloody queen, _John thought faintly. _Good on her. _

"My friends!" the king called in a great booming voice. "This is a wonderful day. Thank you all for sharing in this moment with us." He looked down at Jean, and her answering smile was brighter than the sun itself. "Your offer was a kind one, sir," he said then, turning to catch John's eye. "But I must insist - the drinks are on me!"

Jean laughed, and the assembled crowd cheered their approval, and the very walls of the pub seemed to swell and sway as they struggled to contain the sea of joy that swept through every heart gathered in that place. John was behind the bar in a moment, pulling pints as fast as his hands would go, and someone dropped a coin in the jukebox, and while the guards formed a ring around them the king took his lady once more in his arms, and began to dance, gently, softly, a dance they no doubt had undertaken many times before, and would again on nights beyond counting, down through the years.


	51. Chapter 51

_5 December 1959_

"It's beautiful here, Jean," Lucien told her as they stood together in her back garden, the sunlight warm upon their faces but the air cool and crisp with the taste of winter. _Here _was the home that Jean had made, the garden she had lovingly cultivated with her own hands, and everywhere Lucien looked he could see her fingerprints, and he rejoiced in it.

She smiled up at him, her eyes clear and bright, such joy on her face as he had not seen there for quite some time. What a marvel she was, this woman he adored, what a miracle it seemed - for he could find no other word to describe it - that he should find himself once more standing beside her, knowing that she had chosen him, that they would be together, forever, from this day forward. It was a blessing he had thought lost to him, a mercy he had thought beyond his reach, and yet now here she stood, and he could not stop himself from leaning in to press his lips against her temple. It was an indulgence he had long been denied, touching her, kissing her, and he wanted to seize every opportunity now.

"I'm glad you like it," she told him. "You should have seen it in the summer. It was more beautiful then."

No doubt that was true, but Lucien did not want to think of that long, terrible summer, the sorrow that had gripped him in her absence, the hopelessness, the frustration that had dogged his steps. What he wanted, more than anything, was to put it behind them, and he supposed they had, for the wheels were in motion now, and there would be no stopping their engagement, their marriage, not now.

As the drinks began to flow at the pub Lucien had whispered a few commands to his guards, and he and Jean had slipped quietly out of the room. The publican was under orders to send the bill for the day's festivities to the castle, and there had been no reason for them to linger; the pub was too crowded, too loud, too public, and what Lucien and Jean both needed now was a moment together, a moment of peace, a moment to catch their breath, a moment in which they could decide how best to move forward.

Lucien would have to return to the castle; there was work to be done, and he did not like to leave Li and Lin alone for long. That place was his life, his home, and it was where he belonged. It was where Jean belonged, as well, but she had her own business to tend to; the cottage would need to be dealt with, and she'd need to arrange the transportation of her things. There were so many details in front of them now, a flurry of protocol and courtesy, but Lucien did not want to think about any of it just yet. Just now, just for this moment, he wanted to think only of Jean.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him then, her grey eyes watchful and understanding as ever.

"I was thinking how much I've missed you, and how I can hardly believe any of this is real." It was the truth, and he felt a certain sense of relief, being able to talk to her plainly and without fear now.

Jean sighed, a soft, sad sort of sound, and reached for him, let her fingertips trail against his cheek.

"I didn't want to leave you," she told him. "I know I hurt you, but there seemed to be no other way-"

"There wasn't," he assured her, reaching out and catching hold of her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, kissing them in an act of reverence, and absolution. She had not apologized, and he did not expect her to, for he knew that what she'd said was true, that on the day she walked away from him she had believed that she had no other choice. And much as he hated to admit it, Lucien knew that she was right; she always was.

"The way things stood, back then...Jean, I wanted you to stay, more than anything, but it would have been cruel. There was no way for us then, and if I had pressed the issue...well." It didn't bear thinking about, really, what might have happened if Lucien had bulled forward with their engagement. Without the blessing of Parliament they would have been hard pressed to find a way forward, and Jean would have been vilified in the papers. Her very life might have been ruined, and they still might not have found their way together. "You were so brave, my darling," he told her earnestly. "You were stronger than me, that day."

"It broke my heart to leave you," she said, and her voice was hardly more than a whisper. "I thought you'd never want to see me again, after that."

Funny, Lucien had thought the same thing, that in their parting the ties between them had been severed, that he would never be able to convince her to come home. But fate, or some other force beyond his understanding, had been on his side, and now, at last, he had everything he'd ever wanted. And so, too, he thought, did Jean, for he knew she would not have accepted him, would not have even let him step foot inside the pub, if she had not already thought her way through the question at hand, and decided with her whole heart that she was ready, and willing, and eager to be with him. she had kissed him, and in her kiss he had felt all the love she carried for him, and been content.

"It's behind us," he said. "We can look to the future, now."

"What will we do?" she asked, and though her expression was somewhat anxious her back was straight, her chin lifted as if in defiance of the doubts that must have come creeping in since he'd swept her away from the pub. How very Jean, he thought, that she should already be trying to formulate a plan, trying to organize her thoughts and prepare for what was to come, that she should face the questions of her heart with strength; she was, he thought, the most incredible woman he had ever known.

"I have to go home this afternoon," he said slowly, trying to work through the question himself. "And I imagine you'll have some loose ends to tie up here."

"Yes," she agreed. "I think I'll need a few days, at least."

"Not too long, though," Lucien warned her gently. "This time tomorrow the whole kingdom will know what happened here today. I'll have to release a statement, and once that's done the journos will come knocking down your door."

Jean made a soft sound of distress and Lucien laughed, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. "It won't be so bad, my darling. It's inevitable, really. Everyone will want to know all about you. Back home we can manage it together. Alice and Rose will know what to do. I just don't want you to face it on your own here, where I can't help you."

"All right," she sighed. "What if I come home tomorrow? I want to speak to John and to Eadie in person, but once I've done that I can pack a bag, and we can sort the rest of it out from home."

_Home. _Lucien liked the sound of that, very much. Funny, that; he'd hated the castle in his younger years, had always felt claustrophobic and out of place there. Even now, as a grown man, when he'd returned to that place he'd felt it was more tomb than home. But Jean had made the castle a home, his home, had helped him see the beauty of it through new eyes, had made it a place he wanted to be, so long as she was with him. And now his daughter and granddaughter would call it home, as well, and the halls of that tomb would echo with life, and laughter, and love once more.

"That would be wonderful," he told her earnestly. "Li is very much looking forward to meeting you."

Jean pulled away from him then, just enough to be able to look into his eyes, to search his face as she asked her next question.

"What does she think about all this? She's only just come home, Lucien, and she's lost so much, I'm sure it's been quite the adjustment for her. And now with me coming back, I worry she'll feel...pushed aside."

"I had the same thought," Lucien told her truthfully. "But we'll make sure she isn't, won't we? I told her about what happened between us, and she understands. She knows how unhappy I've been without you, and she wants to meet you. You'll love her, Jean, I know you will."

"Of course I will," she told him, smiling. "She's your daughter." But her smile faded, then, a hint of worry creeping into her eyes, and Lucien liked that not one bit.

"Jean?" he asked her softly.

"Oh, Lucien," she sighed, and in that sigh he heard a world of sorrow. "I know it seems like everything is sorted, and maybe it is. With Sir Patrick's help, I'm sure we can handle most anything that happens. But I am worried about my boys."

And in that moment Lucien felt something very close to shame, for in truth he had almost forgotten about Jean's sons. There was the matter of Jack, and whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into - though both Patrick and Rose from the Press Office seemed certain they could distance their new queen from the bad behavior of her youngest son - but what worried him now, what he was sure worried Jean now, was something else altogether. Her sons, those children born of her own body, born of her love for another man, were two young men whose mother was about to remarry. And the man who would be their stepfather was not a farmer or a greengrocer, but the bloody _king_. Lucien knew nothing at all about them, what sort of men they were, and he could not even begin to predict how they might react to the news.

"Did you tell them anything about...me, my darling? Or will this all come as a surprise?"

"There was nothing to tell," she told him sadly. "We never made our engagement official, before, and after...well. I thought I'd never see you again."

"They're in for quite the surprise, aren't they?"

He tried to find some humor in the situation, but Jean did not seem to share in his optimism, for his comment did not bring a smile to her lips.

"Young Christopher won't cause any trouble. He's a good boy. A steady boy. He has a family and a career quite separate from me, and he'll come around. I think he'd like you, actually, if he ever gets the chance to meet you."

"Well, of course he will," Lucien protested at once; the boy would be his stepson, and Lucien could not imagine a world in which they were not well acquainted with one another. Jean, however, had not finished her thought, and carried on regardless.

"But Jack, he's...he's emotional, Lucien. He takes things hard. He won't be pleased."

"I'm not marrying him," Lucien told her firmly. "I'm marrying _you. _And I love you. And perhaps, in time, Jack will see that, and understand it. But that's a problem for another day, isn't it?"

"Yes," Jean agreed, and Lucien tightened his hold upon her, pulled her closer."I suppose it is. Today, I'm happy. I didn't think I'd ever be this happy again."

"Nor did I." No, Lucien had thought such joy beyond his reach, but Jean was here, in his arms, and he could not find room in his heart for doubt. And so as she looked at him he bowed his head, and kissed her soundly. Jean responded instantly, deeply, wound her arms around his neck and held him tight, and for the moment they were safe, and happy, and well, sheltered in one another's arms. Her little cottage was full of castle guards, and more paced the pavement outside, waiting for their king to take his leave, to whisk him back to the castle. No doubt news of their shocking engagement was already seeping like flood waters through the town, telephone lines vibrating with the chatter of excited voices; no doubt come tomorrow this little village would be flooded with people, come to catch a glimpse of the woman who would become their queen. Tomorrow there would be statements to make, questions to answer, a whole host of complications to untangle, but right now, in this moment, Lucien was happy, and Jean was kissing him, and he could not ask for more.


	52. Chapter 52

_6 December 1959_

Lin was nursing, and Li was humming to her softly. It was an old song, a song without a name, a song Li could not have placed if she tried. She did not think her adoptive mother had sung it to her; _Mama_ was a good woman, a kind woman, but Li had been nearly seven when she'd been taken to her new home, and she could not recall having ever heard _Mama _sing. Perhaps it was a tune her real mother had hummed to her, when she was small and safe, during those few brief years in Singapore before the war had come for their family. Much as it grieved her Li could not recall anything from those days; she had been too small, and the memories had faded from her mind. Nothing remained, no sense of that place or the people who had been her parents first. _Papa_ had been a stranger to her, all those months ago; when she first laid eyes on him she had hoped to feel some sort of recognition, had hoped to know him on sight, but everything about him was foreign and terrifying to her eyes. That tall white man with his greying beard and his fine suit and his retinue of soldiers, she had looked at him almost with dismay, thinking how wrong it was, that such a man could be her father. All her life she wondered about him, this stranger from a foreign land who had taken a Chinese woman to wife and abandoned her and their child during the war; she had longed for him, and hated him, and grieved for him, and somehow the truth of him had not quite lived up to the expectations that had built over a lifetime without him.

But then he had pressed his hands to his heart and bowed his head to her in greeting, and she had felt the smallest amount of relief; whoever he was, whatever he was, he had approached her with respect according to her own customs, had not rushed at her or begun babbling away at her in a language she did not understand. He spoke Mandarin to her - in the beginning his speech had been rusty and fumbling from disuse, but he had grown more confident in the intervening months, and she had come to learn so much about him, this man who was a part of her very self.

She had learned that he was kind and gentle, that despite his elevated station he was not haughty or hard or demanding. She had learned the truth behind his absence, and grieved for him, for the pain that he had endured. She had learned that he had loved her mother, and loved her well, that she herself had been born into a happy home, even if she could not remember it. For those things she was grateful, more grateful than she could say; _Papa _had saved her, and never asked for anything in return. If he had she would have given it, and gladly, but he did not press her, or make demands; he said only _I want you to be happy, _and let her decide her own course for herself. Such freedom, such unconditional - and often exuberant - affection was unfamiliar to her, but in the months since she had come to this place she had grown to love it, and to love him.

Still holding her nursing child she sighed, and looked around the room that had been given to her. It was the same small suite she'd had since the night she first arrived; _Papa_ had offered to move her upstairs, out of the guest suite and into a larger set of rooms more appropriate for a princess, with more space for Li and Lin to share, but she was in no hurry to leave. This suite was opulent by her standards, and she was not quite ready to move into one of the grand rooms upstairs.

"We would be like two little peas, rolling around in an empty pot," she said to Lin. The baby did not answer, of course, but her dark eyelashes fluttered at the sound of her mother's voice, and Li smiled at her, thinking what a beautiful thing she was, thinking how lucky they both were to be alive. Their flight from Shanghai to this place had been a terrifying ordeal, but Li had known at the time she had no other choice; after the horrific death of her husband, she could not in good conscience raise her child in such a place. Even if the accident of her own birth protected her, the knowledge that the government that ruled her could do such things turned her stomach, and she dreaded the thought of Lin growing up surrounded by such fear. It would have been selfish, she thought at the time, to stay in a place only because it was familiar to her, when her child would be safer, happier somewhere else, when there was a man who loved them and could provide for their every need waiting for them on the other side of the sea. It was the hardest thing she'd ever done, leaving her home behind, but with each passing day she grew more certain that she had done the right thing.

And _Papa _was happy, and his happiness had infected her own heart. She grieved for her husband still, and always would. She worried for her friends across the sea, trapped in famine and strife. But this castle, this kingdom, was her right by birth. She would learn their language and their ways and she would do her best to be a good princess, to make them proud of her, these people who would be her inheritance. Li did not entirely understand them, yet, but she understood duty, and she knew that one had been laid before her. It was a duty that would consume her until her dying day, but if her father could bear that burden, then so too could she, for his sake, if for no one else's.

And one day Lin, too, would take up that duty for herself.

"It will be easier for you, little one," Li told her, rocking absently in the fine upholstered chair _Papa_ had acquired for her. Lin would grow up in this place, with these people, knowing what honor and responsibility waited for her; it would not seem strange to her, as it seemed strange to her mother.

Such thoughts led Li's mind back to her own mother, the mother she had known so briefly, the mother she could not recall. Her name was _Mei Lin, _and her family had been powerful in Singapore before the war, and _Papa_ had loved her, and that was all the Li knew of the woman who'd given her life. Mei Lin must have known who her husband was, the life that waited for them in this place, must have known that her daughter would one day be a princess; did that thought fill her with fear, or with pride? Had she tried to raise Li to be a perfect princess, pretty and polite, tried to teach her about responsibility from a young age, or had she tried to shield her daughter from the weight of the crown, tried to give her a normal childhood before the castle called them all home? Li did not know, but she would have given anything to have known her own mother, truly, to have been able to talk with her about all these questions, all these doubts that filled her. It was a foolish wish, perhaps, but it lingered just the same.

She had no mother to turn to, and now _Papa_ was bringing another woman to the castle. A woman he meant to marry, a woman who would become her queen, and her stepmother. The very thought terrified her; Li was not comfortable conversing in English, and likewise she was sure _Papa's_ new woman would not speak Mandarin. How then would they converse with one another? How could they come to know one another? And could Li come to love her, come to welcome her presence in their lives, knowing that Jean was only here because Li's own mother had died? Would this woman, this Jean, even want to know her, or would she disdain Li and Lin, these reminders of _Papa's_ colorful past?

"No, I think she will be nice," Li told her daughter. Oh, it didn't matter to Lin, but Li had to talk to _someone_ about it, and she could hardly talk to her father. _Papa_ had returned the day before grinning fit to burst, had scooped her into such an exuberant hug that he swept her clean off her feet. He could not wait for his woman to come home, and knowing that Jean made him so happy was reassuring in some measure to Li, for her father was a good man, and surely, she told herself, any woman he could love so deeply must be good, too. He had not told her much about his Jean; she had been a housekeeper, Li knew. She was a housekeeper, and she loved flowers, and she loved _Papa_, and she had left because she could not bear him children, could not marry him, and did not wish to bring trouble down upon him for her own sake; Jean had been the one who told him to go to Shanghai, who sent him to Li all those months ago. These things _Papa_ had told her, and knowing all of this, then, Li could not imagine that Jean would be cruel, or hard.

Could she? _Papa_ was a very important man, and the world was not always a happy place for a woman on her own. Was Jean as lovely as _Papa_ believed, or had she simply seen a lonely man, a wealthy man, and done whatever she could to ensnare him? Li did not want to believe that _Papa _could be so easily manipulated, but she had seen enough of the cruelty of life to be wary.

"We will have to wait and see," she said to Lin, but just then there came a knock upon the door, and it opened a moment later. Her visitor was a lad called Charlie, a serious-faced young man with kind eyes and dark hair who had been assigned to guard Li, and followed her everywhere, silent as a ghost and always watchful for any threat to her person. Though at first Li had been dismayed by the thought of having a soldier dog her steps she had grown accustomed to him, and of late she had begun to appreciate his quiet, steady presence.

"It's time," he said, but then he caught sight of her, realized that she was nursing her child and spun on his heel in an effort to give her some privacy. "I'm sorry."

Charlie had learned a few words of Mandarin - _please, thank you, yes, no, I'm sorry, stop, _that sort of thing _\- _and combined with Li's burgeoning English they had formed a language of their own, muddling words from both here and there until they could understand one another. It worked for them, and Li rather liked it; she was half her mother and half her father, and in this place she was beginning to feel as if those two halves were finally, at long last, becoming one whole. She was not entirely one thing or the other, but she was learning how to be both, and how to be happy in herself.

"Wait, please," she told him in English. _It's time, _Charlie had told her, and Li supposed that meant that Jean had arrived at last, that the moment had come when Li would finally meet this woman who was about to change her life yet again. Lin had finished eating anyway, and so Li held her daughter to her shoulder and rubbed her back for a moment before rising slowly to her feet. Carefully she buttoned up her dress, and then checked her appearance in the mirror. Perhaps she should have changed into nicer clothes, but she did not have time to change now, and she would have to do.

And so she crossed the room, and at the sound of her footfalls Charlie turned around again. He did not smile, but there was still a certain warmth in his expression, and so Li smiled for him. Her smiles came more easily, more readily now than they ever had done before; perhaps, she thought, she was beginning to pick up a few habits from her _Papa._

"Ready?" Charlie asked her.

"Ready," she told him.

They walked from that place together, Li with Lin in her arms and Charlie walking just behind her. Since her room was on the ground floor they did not have very far to go; they emerged into the grand foyer, and found _Papa_ waiting there, with Matthew and Alice. Other faces were watching from doorways, Li saw, but the servants kept their distance, observing in silence as one of their own returned to them, not as a housekeeper, but as their queen.

"Hello, sweetheart," _Papa_ said when he saw her; Li came to stand beside him, and he kissed her cheek, brushed his hand over Lin's soft hair in a gesture of such easy affection that it made Li love him even more, somehow. Her life before had not been quite like this, full of gentle touches and words of endearment, but she had grown accustomed to her father's affections, and she was grateful for them.

"Is she here?" Li asked him softly, and in response _Papa_ beamed at her, his eyes crinkling up with the depth of his joy.

"She is," he answered, and a moment later the door swung open, and two guards ushered Jean into the foyer.

The first thing Li thought, upon seeing the woman who would be her stepmother, was that Jean did not look like a queen. The dress she wore was pale blue, and patterned in white flowers. It hit her just below the knee, and the sleeves went almost to her elbows. There was a small bow on the front of it, and it was to Li's mind very lovely, but hardly the sort of thing that would be worn by a woman who was about to marry a king. It looked, she thought, like the best dress an ordinary sort of woman might own, saved for a special occasion. Her hair was very dark, and curled according to the style that ladies preferred in this place, but it was touched with grey at her temples. Her face was beautiful, but lined - she was not as young as that woman Joy had been, but looked to be closer to _Papa's_ own age. Overall she looked, to Li's mind, like a very normal sort of woman, and that reassured her, very much. Li was not comfortable with the idea of royalty, these people who had been given from birth every comfort and blessing that Li herself had been denied, these people who did not understand what it was to truly suffer. Jean did not look like one of them; hers was the face of a woman who had lived a full life, with pain and with joy, and her hands had surely known work, and those things made Jean rise in Li's estimation.

Jean walked with her back straight and her chin up, but _Papa_ did not stand and wait for her to reach him; he squeezed Li's shoulder once, and then began to walk, so that he and Jean met together in the center of the foyer. Li could not see _Papa's_ face, but she could see the way this woman smiled at him, and she saw goodness in that smile, and hope.

"Welcome home, my darling," _Papa _said, reaching for her hand. He took it, and kissed it, and Li watched, breathless, wondering what might happen next, wondering whether this woman might speak to her at all or if _Papa _might instead whisk her away.

"It's good to be home," Jean said, smiling, and then _Papa_ pulled her close, and she let him, and for a moment they simply held one another, tightly, standing there in the vast sprawling beauty of the castle foyer, utterly unconcerned by the people who had gathered to watch them. Perhaps they spoke, but if they did it was in voices too soft for Li to hear. They clung to one another; Li could see that Jean had fisted both her hands in the back of _Papa's_ jacket, and in that one gesture she felt she could see just how much Jean loved him, how happy she was to be back here, and Li hoped that was all for the good.

Watching them together, however, was growing a bit uncomfortable for Li, and no doubt for everyone else as well. A king did not do such things; Li was receiving lessons in etiquette along with English, and the more she learned the more she realized that no matter how strange _Papa_ seemed to her at times he seemed strange to these people as well, for he did not keep to their rules of behavior, defied their every expectation. And that was one of the things she loved about him best; he was not just a king, was not just a symbol of perfection and power. He was perfectly, imperfectly _Papa, _and he was always himself.

As last he and Jean broke apart from one another; he brushed the tears from her cheek with his thumb, and then slid his arm around her waist, and led her across the floor to Li. Those tears, they spoke to Li's heart; Jean had left this place for the sake of _Papa's _reputation, and perhaps that leaving had wounded her, as it had wounded him. Perhaps they could both be happy now; perhaps this was one story that could end in love, and in joy.

"Li," he said as he drew near, "this is Jean Beazely. Jean, this is my daughter."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness," Jean said, ducking into a graceful curtsy. That was one of the first phrases Li had learned in her English lessons; _people are going to say it to you all the time, _her tutor had told her, _so you might as well know what it means. _If _Papa_ did not always respect the rules of courtesy it seemed that Jean did; Jean had called her _Your Highness, _and Li knew what it meant, knew that Jean was offering her the deference owed her by her station, but Jean's voice had been soft and warm, neither haughty nor afraid. Li liked the sound of it, very much.

"I am pleased to meet you, Jean," Li answered slowly. "You have made my father very happy."

Jean smiled at her then, widely and without artifice, and Li liked that smile as much as she had liked Jean's voice.

"He makes me happy, too," Jean told her.


	53. Chapter 53

**_A/N: I did take the general idea of the floorplan here from The Crown, with a few of my own embellishments._**

* * *

_6 December 1959_

"I believe the King wanted to show you this himself," Alice said as Jean rose slowly from her chair, "but needs must. You know how busy he is."

"Of course I do," Jean answered. Of course she knew he was a busy man, that his time was not his own. She knew it better than most, and she understood it, and she would not hold it against him; he had a kingdom to run, and what sort of wife, what sort of Queen would she be, if she insisted he put her own needs before the needs of their people? Still, though, it stung just a bit; she and Lucien and Li had no sooner settled themselves in the King's personal parlor with a pot of tea than Alice had come for them, had told Lucien in her usual brusque tone that he was needed for a meeting with Sir Patrick, and that Li's tutor had come looking for her. No matter how momentous this day might be for Jean personally, the castle carried on oblivious to her desire for a moment alone with her fiance and his daughter. She wanted to catch her breath, wanted to hold Lucien's hand, wanted to speak softly to Li, wanted to catch a glimpse of her soon-to-be-granddaughter, but such a kindness was not in the offing; with Li and Lucien dispatched Alice had taken custody of Jean, and taken over her introduction into her new life as the King's fiance.

"You'll need your own personal secretary, of course," Alice continued, holding the door open and gesturing for Jean to step out into the corridor. "You'll have your own schedule to keep, your own engagements and patronages. I'll step in for now, though. Wouldn't want to leave you all on your own."

"I'd be very grateful-"

"I've taken the liberty of booking a meeting for us tomorrow morning, after breakfast. We'll go over the schedule in more detail then. For now, though, let's get you settled."

"All right," Jean sighed. Alice had hardly given her a chance to get a word in edgewise, but she supposed she ought to expect such treatment in the future; a Queen's life was not her own, no more than a King's. At least Alice would be here to help her, in these early days; they had known one another for quite some time, and always got on well together, and if someone had to take charge of her education, she was glad it was someone she knew already, and trusted.

"Until the wedding, you'll be staying in a suite downstairs, and the butlers are overseeing the transfer of your things there now. After the wedding, though, you'll be moved into the Queen's suite. We're in the process of cleaning and updating it for you now," they had hardly traveled ten feet down the corridor, but Alice had stopped, and was rummaging her trouser-pocket, eventually retrieving a large, golden key. "It isn't completely ready yet, but I thought you might like to have a look."

Of course Jean was eager to peak behind that door; in all the years she'd spent in this place, learning its secrets and tending to it with all the loving care her mother's heart could muster, Jean had never set foot inside the Queen's suite. No one had; King Thomas had ordered it closed after his wife's death, and the door had never again been unlocked, not even for cleaning. These rooms had belonged to Lucien's beloved mother, had stood silent and holy as a mausoleum since her death, but now these rooms, like the beautiful ring upon her finger, had been given to her, a gesture of love from the man she adored. She wanted to be grateful, and she was, but she could not help but feel as if she had just been handed a legacy, and she wondered if the burden would prove too heavy for her to carry.

"King Lucien was very clear about what he wanted for these rooms, and we're trying to honor his wishes," Alice told her, and in the next breath they had stepped through the door, and Jean could not help but gasp as she gazed around in wonder.

The main door opened onto a vast, sprawling parlor. The white carpet was thick and plush, and the walls were pale pink, the scent of fresh paint floating through the air. The parlor had been emptied of all furniture, but there was a gilt-framed mirror hanging above the ancient stone fireplace, and the walls were decorated with paintings, most of them landscapes and studies of flowers, bright pops of color everywhere she looked. The windows were tall and broad, the curtains heavy and a lovely shade of green, floral patterns embroidered on them in golden thread.

"You have your own office, through that door," Alice said, gesturing towards one of the heavy wooden doors to the left, "and the bedroom and private bathroom are through here," she pointed to another door, smiling at Jean's obvious appreciation for the room in front of her. "Go on, have a look."

And of course Jean did; the parlor was bigger by far than her old bedroom, and she could only imagine what further luxury waited for her behind the closed doors that lined the periphery. The bedroom did not disappoint; the walls in here were pale blue - also freshly painted - and the bed had been installed, though it was otherwise as bare of furnishings as the parlor had been. That bed; Jean stared at it for a long moment, with her fingertips pressed against her lips as her thoughts began to race. The frame itself was wooden, huge and hand-carved and heavy; just the thought of the amount of effort it must have taken to haul that thing up the stairs and into this room was daunting. The mattress was thick and plush, piled high with pillows, and the navy blue coverlet was heavy and warm. There were curtains, currently tied back, which could be drawn down to hide it entirely from view; those, too, were navy, and embroidered with a pattern of creeping golden vines.

"My goodness," Jean said, for in truth no other words would come to her. _That's the place where we'll sleep, he and I, _she thought; _we'll draw those curtains and hide ourselves from the world, and be happy. _Just the idea of it, sharing her bed with Lucien, sent a shiver coursing down her spine. But there was something odd about this room, and so she gazed around, trying to put her finger and what troubled her so. There were no windows, but Jean supposed there would be light enough in the parlor, and surely lamps would be brought in once the rest of the furniture was installed. The door leading to her private bathroom was tucked away in the corner, and that was all for the good, but there was no closet, and though she supposed they'd give her a bureau she imagined it would have to be quite large, to house all the clothes a Queen might need.

"Now, we do plan to install two end tables, on either side of the bed," Alice told her. "But I know you like to read. Would you like a bookshelf, as well?"

"Yes, please," Jean answered at once. Her own collection was quite small, but she supposed with the weight of the crown behind her she might be able to grow it, in time, and she liked that idea, very much. _We can lay in that bed together, reading our books with our heads on the same pillows, _she thought, smiling. She longed, with everything she had, for such quiet moments, moments when they could simply be Lucien and Jean, two people in love with one another, far from the responsibilities and burdens of their daily lives. "And a bureau?" she added, remembering her earlier concern.

"Oh, you won't have to worry about that," Alice assured her. "There's a whole room somewhere just for the Queen's clothes. They'll be brought to you each morning, and your maids will help you dress."

"Surely that's not necessary," Jean protested at once. Oh, she knew that the King had attendants whose sole purpose was to see to his clothing, but really she thought the whole thing rather silly. She'd been dressing herself since childhood, and she hardly needed help. And besides, the only person she wanted to see her in her underthings was Lucien. _What if it's someone I know, someone I used to work with? _The very idea was mortifying.

"I think you know that it is," Alice told her, not unkindly. There was understanding in her expression, compassion, even, as if she had known already that Jean would struggle with the changes her new station would bring. "You aren't a housekeeper anymore, Jean. Your whole life is going to change."

"Am I supposed to have a meeting with my staff every morning, to decide what I'm going to wear?" Surely Lucien didn't have such problems; he always wore a suit, and though he preferred shades of blue to black he was otherwise indifferent to what he wore. It wouldn't matter one bit to him what outfit his valet brought to him in the morning, but it mattered to Jean; the rules for women's clothes were rather less forgiving than for men, after all.

"Once you get to know your ladies, it won't have to be nearly so formal," Alice assured her. "You'll grow used to it, in time."

"I suppose I'll have to," she answered, trying not to sound too glum about the whole thing.

"Now, there's one more thing I need to show you," Alice said, and then they were leaving the bedroom behind, walking back out into the sun-drenched pinkness of the parlor. It was an altogether happier room, that parlor, but Jean supposed that the bedroom would seem much more welcoming, once Lucien was there beside her.

"This door," she led Jean to the far right side of the parlor, "leads to the King's suite. Once you're married, and living in here, this door will be open, and you can open or close it as you wish."

Another golden key emerged from Alice's pocket, and then she swung the door wide. This time Jean stepped into a strange, in-between sort of space; there were two standing mirrors and two dressing tables, one set on either side of the room, and the plush carpet led from her door to another. Alice unlocked the far door as Jean stood rooted to the spot, hardly listening while her friend carried on with her tour; _what is this place, _she asked herself, _and why are there so many doors?_

"This space is primarily used for dressing, obviously. King Thomas used the King's Suite, and kept the dressing room open, though the door we just walked through was closed. King Lucien preferred his old suite, but now that you're to be married he's decided to move in here."

Alice flung open the door in front of her, and they were stepping once more into the King's parlor, where they had begun their journey. The tea service had been neatly cleared from the small table around which Jean and Lucien and Li had gathered only a bare few minutes before. This room was furnished, unlike her own; perhaps, she thought, Lucien was content with his father's things and did not wish to change them. The walls were painted a deep navy, and hung with paintings of seascapes and a portrait of King Thomas and Queen Genevieve, and a young Lucien. The many chairs and couches were comfortable and plush, but a sense of unease had settled low in Jean's belly. Her fears were proved justified in a moment, for Alice had continued to move in a straight line, until a last she reached another door.

"And this," she said, unlocking that door, too, "is the King's bedroom."

That unease began to morph into anger as Jean marched across the parlor, to join Alice there at the door to the King's bedroom. It was almost identical to the bedroom in the Queen's suite, with its pale blue walls and canopied bed, its navy coverlet and embroidered curtains. The room itself was utterly inoffensive, except that it was separated from Jean's bedroom by four doors and an ocean of space.

"Alice," she said, trying hard to control the rising tide of her emotions. "Are you telling me the king is supposed to sleep in one room, and the queen in another?"

She truly did not know, had not even realized until this moment that they intended to keep her and Lucien separate. There had, after all, been no Queen in residence during the long years of her tenure, and no one had spoken of her, and Jean had never once even glimpsed inside her rooms. Until now, Jean had assumed the Queen's suite would be no more than a parlor for entertaining guests, an office to work in, a private place to bathe. It had never occurred to her that she would be set apart from Lucien, that it would require so much effort for them to reach one another, and she liked it not one bit.

"He didn't warn you, did he." It was not a question. Alice was frowning, clearly made uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken. "It's always been this way, Jean. The King and Queen can decide amongst themselves if they want to...well...and they both have their own private space."

Jean didn't want _private space. _She didn't want each evening to turn into a series of maneuvers - _your bed or mine? - _did not want to ever see Lucien close one of those doors between them. She did not want to lie in that vast bed alone, thinking of the nights he'd chosen to come to her, and wondering why this wasn't one of them. She did not want to have to _ask_ for her husband. Her hands began to shake, and so she clasped them together in front of her, trying not to take her ire out on poor Alice, who was, after all, only the messenger.

_We're going to have a long talk about this, _she thought as she stood and stared at the king's bed. _A very long talk. _


	54. Chapter 54

_6 December 1959_

"I don't suppose there's any sense in waiting, is there?" Jean said to Li. She was not entirely certain that the girl understood her and so she tried to smile softly as she said it, tried to give every appearance of being nonthreatening and kind. Which, she supposed, she genuinely was, most of the time. It was only that this day, which had started out so wonderfully, had descended into a strange sort of disappointment that she liked not one bit. First there had been the unexpected interruption of her tea with Lucien and Li, then the revelation that she would be expected to keep a separate bed from Lucien - and that he had known this, and not forewarned her - and then she'd been sent off to the Press Office to assist Rose with drafting a statement about her newfound status as the King's fiance, and now this. A quiet family dinner had been arranged in the smallest of the dining rooms - the table was still big enough for thirty people at least - and Lucien was nowhere in sight. Jean was left alone at that too-big table, a bevy servants standing silently in a line by the far while while Li sat across from her, silent and still. She held her daughter in her arms, but the table between them was as wide as a canyon, and Jean could think of no way to bridge that distance, when she was too far away to lean over and comment on what a lovely child little Lin was. _She might not understand me, anyway, _Jean thought, perilously close to pouting.

There was no point, she thought, in continuing this charade; perhaps she and Li would have been much more comfortable in a smaller room, at a smaller table, with fewer witnesses, but the grandiosity of their surroundings had stifled them both, and there was no telling when - or if - Lucin would be joining them. Jean was on the verge of calling out to one of the servants - who she all knew by name, of course, and that was mortifying in its own way - when the door behind her swung open. For a moment a smile bloomed across her face, relief swelling in her heart, but when she turned to look it was not Lucien she found, but Peter.

"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Beazley," he said, looking distinctly uncomfortable, "the King sent me to tell you that he has been delayed, and he requests that you enjoy your meal without him."

_That settles it, _she thought grimly.

"Well, thank you, Peter. Do you think," she threw her voice a little further, catching the eye of the servant nearest her, "the Princess and I might move our meal to somewhere a little less…formal?"

* * *

"That's all of it?" Lucien asked as he finished signing the last of the vast stack of papers Alice had put in front of him.

"It is," she said, snatching the paper away the moment he lifted his pen.

"You're sure? There's no more little fires that need to be put out, no more insurgencies in the offing?"

It wasn't Alice's fault, and he knew it, but still Lucien could not help the frustration he felt having spent the entire day knee-deep in bureaucracy. The miners had actually gone on strike this time, and the public transport workers were threatening to do the same, and there had been meetings with Sir Patrick and a bevy of reports to read and now this, emergency measured that had been passed by Parliament to appease the striking workers and required the King's signature before they could take effect. The workers had the politicians over the barrel, and Lucien rather approved of that, but he dearly wished this madness had come on any other day, for Jean had been all by herself when she most need him, and was no doubt feeling a bit overwhelmed by her new reality. He had wanted for them to walk into this together, hand-in-hand, and yet duty had pulled him far from her side.

"That's everything," Alice assured him, already tucking the papers back in their box, to be delivered back to Parliament with all haste. But then a thought seemed to occur to her, for she spoke again almost at once. "Actually, sir, if I may-"

"Good God, Alice," Lucien groaned, dismayed by yet another interruption, but Alice only frowned at him, and carried on.

"This matter is of a more...personal nature, sir. You may want to go and find Mrs. Beazley as soon as you can. I think she's a bit...well. I think she'd like to speak to you."

No doubt she would like that, very much, and Lucien would, too; there were so many things he still wished to say to her, to show her. It was not the advice that gave him pause, but the tone in which it was delivered; Alice looked rather troubled, and Lucien liked that not one bit.

"Has something happened?"

"You really should speak to Mrs. Beazley, sir," Alice told him, and then she spun smartly on her heel, and left one rather confused man in her wake.

Was Jean upset about something? He wondered. She'd have every right to be, he knew, after the way he'd been taken from her, the way he'd missed dinner, but she'd known before now the sort of demands that were placed upon a king, and she was a practical sort of woman. Surely she wasn't cross over his absence alone, he thought, but then what could it be?

As quickly as he could Lucien rushed from the room. Given the time he supposed she had finished her supper already, and so he did not make for the dining room. He went first to the little suite that had been assigned to her, one of the smaller residences set aside for visiting dignitaries. He knocked sharply on the door, but no answer came to him; the door remained closed, and no sound came from behind it. An errant maid passed him by, giving a quick curtsy with a shocked look upon her face that only made Lucien feel foolish; how he must look, standing here in the corridor outside his fiance's bedroom, denied entry to her private domain. He knocked again, but the effort was wasted; Jean was not inside, or if she was she had no intention of opening the door to him.

No, he thought, that wasn't her way; she must have been somewhere else. And so he set off again, this time making for the Queen's suite, thinking perhaps she was trying to familiarize herself with the space. It was a happy thought, the idea of Jean taking charge of those rooms that were meant to be hers, adjacent to his own, the pair of suites forming a home that they could share, content and delighted with one another. He had a key to those rooms, and so slipped inside at once, but the lights were off, and there was no sign of his beloved.

_Where on earth could she be? _He wondered. If she was not in the dining room, or either of the bedrooms that had been given to her, where could she have gone at this time of the evening, when darkness had fallen and most everyone else was settling in for the night?

The answer came to him all at once, and he grinned despite the worries that had begun to plague him. _Of course, _he thought. There was only one place she could go, only one place she would want to go, and the thought of meeting her there as he had done so many times before lifted his spirits immensely. Whatever it was that troubled her so he knew that he would find her, and he would hold her, and he would set her fears to rest, for as far as he was concerned there was no challenge so great they could not overcome it together.

His heart raced and his feet flew as he made his way up, and up, and up, until at last he emerged into the dark chill world that waited for him on the battlements. For a moment he lamented his foolishness in coming out without a coat, but Jean would be warm enough, he thought, and he intended to wrap his arms around her the moment he saw her. There was nothing he wanted more; he had been too long away from her, and he had need of her now, needed her gentle hands, her soft voice, her warm eyes, needed to know that this one day of royal treatment had not put her off the idea of marrying him altogether.

The battlements were a different world, a quieter world, a place of shadows and silent-grim faced guards. But this world had always, to his mind, belonged to Jean. It was where he had stood when he first spoke to her, first kissed her, first fell completely, madly in love with her. It was a place of wistful thoughts, and quiet dreams, a place where the ancient stone of the castle rose uncontested by the modern advancements of the city below. And for that reason he loved it, for when he stepped into this frosted, darkened world, he felt peace, and knew that Jean was with him.

The path around the worn stone parapet was familiar to him, and he did not falter in the darkness. Oh, there were lights here and there, but the guards who stood sentinel up here in the night preferred not to be blinded by them, and so much of the walk was cloaked in shadow. The guards themselves were shadows, the navy of their uniforms bled into black by the night, their rifles glinting like stars, their faces drawn as they paced at regular intervals, bowing to their king and standing aside to let him pass unquestioned. They must have known, he thought, why he had come here, the comfort he sought; it must have been these quiet guards who first learned the truth of his love, before anyone else. For so long that love had only existed here, in the shadows, but come tomorrow it would burst forth in furious light as his statement made its way to the papers, and Lucien was eager for that revelation, eager to take Jean's hand, and never let her go.

At last he found her, his beautiful love, standing by the same corner of the castle wall where he had stumbled across her for the first time more than a year before. She had traded her fine travelling dress for a warmer one in a pale shade of grey, and she'd wrapped herself in the same warm knitted white shawl he recalled from so many of their previous assignations. And she had her face turned up towards the stars, as if they were her old friends, as if they spoke to one another, Jean and the celestial bodies who were her kin, in a language Lucien himself would never learn to speak. She was, he thought, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in all his life.

"I thought I might find you here," he called to her softly. At the sound of his voice her shoulders slumped, and a soft sigh escaped her. For a moment he worried that she did not want to see him, that she would be angry with him for interrupting her solitude, but she did not shout at him, or tell him to go. She only turned to face him, and held out her hand, reaching for him through the darkness.

"Oh, Lucien," she said as he took her hand, and used it to pull her close. He wrapped his arms around her and she fell against him willingly, nestling her head beneath his chin and letting him hold her. Though she seemed sorrowful and distressed at last she would allow him this mercy, and Lucien drank in the softness of her, grateful and concerned in almost equal measure. "Where have you been?"

"I'm so sorry, my love," he told her, kissing the top of her head. "There was a problem with the miners-"

"Actually," she said, tilting her head back so that she could gaze into his eyes, her expression rueful. "I don't actually want to know. It's all right, Lucien, I know it can't be helped."

"There's nowhere I'd rather be than with you," he told her, meaning every word.

"Well," she said, smoothing her hands over the lapels of his jacket and stepping back apace, out of the shelter of his arms. He missed the warmth of her at once but did not press her; he did not know what lay in store for them, and he did not want to give offense when she was already distressed. "The Princesses and I had a lovely dinner, even if we missed you."

"You did?" Lucien asked as his heart gave a great leap. That Li and Jean should get to known one another, should be comfortable with one another, was of the utmost importance to him, for he meant for them to be a family, all four of them, and he rather thought that Jean might feel the same.

"Charlie was a great help to us, actually. Between the three of us, we managed to have a nice conversation. She's a lovely girl, Lucien."

He beamed at her; he could not help it. She _was_ a lovely girl, his lovely girl, the light of his life, and that Jean could see that and appreciate it meant that he was well on his way to making sure all their dreams came true. And yet sadness lingered at the corners of her eyes, her lips turned down in the ghost of a frown, and he knew he was not yet out of the woods with her.

"Alice showed me to the Queen's suite today," she told him then, speaking the words as if they were somehow distasteful; why should she take offense at that? He wondered. The rooms were beautiful, and had once belonged to his mother, and he'd had them painted and decorated in a style he thought Jean would like. Did she disapprove of his having taken charge of those plans herself? No, he thought, that seemed too trivial a concern for his Jean to trouble herself with.

"Do you really mean for us to sleep in separate beds, Lucien?"

"Is _that _what's bothering you?" he asked, perplexed by the very idea. Jean looked so out of sorts, and after everything else that had happened this day he couldn't understand why the matter of their bedrooms should be the one thing that bothered her most.

* * *

"Of course it bothers me!" she answered at once, her sorrow fading as anger began to take its place. The anger had been simmering low in her gut all day; oh, she wasn't angry with Lucien, or not only with him. On the one hand she wished he'd warned her, that he'd given them the chance to discuss the matter and make the decision together, as she felt all such matters must be decided. And on the other she understood why he had done it; it was simply the way things _were_. To be royal, to live in this house, to assume the crown, was to give away one's very self, to cease to be an individual and instead become one more piece in the inexorably turning cog of the monarchy. Perhaps it had not even occurred to him that they might settle themselves another way, but that angered her, too, the thought that such personal, private decisions would be made by tradition and protocol secretaries, and not Jean and the man who was to be her husband. Though the long hours of the day had given her time in which to cool her ire and remember that Lucien was not being deliberately cruel to her the rather flippant response he gave her now, as if he could not imagine why she should care whether they shared a bed or not, lit those sparks once more.

"Doesn't it bother you?" she hissed, and no sooner had she asked the question than it occurred to her that she might not like the answer. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to sleeping alone. Perhaps he preferred it that way, taking his pleasure when it suited him but retreating always to a private space that was reserved for him, and him alone. Perhaps that was what he _wanted, _and Jean felt her heart began to crack at the very idea. Marriage, as far as she was concerned, was an all or nothing proposition. To be married meant to share everything, the good and the bad together. And if she and Lucien did not agree on something as fundamental as where they ought to sleep, how could they possibly hope to build a firm foundation between themselves?

She knew she had accepted his proposal in haste, overcome by the idea that he had undertaken that journey, come to _her, _rather than sending for her, and she was beginning to wonder if she had not given the matter due consideration. They came from such very different places, Jean and her king, had lived such different lives, and perhaps she had been foolish, to think she could make a good match for such a man.

"To tell you the truth, Jean, I hadn't considered it," he said slowly. He was watching her uncertainly, as if he feared she might fly into a rage at any moment, and that wounded her, too, that he could think she would take her love away from him, having only so recently bestowed it. Perhaps she had been rash in accepting his proposal the day before, perhaps everything was moving entirely too quickly, but Jean did not intend to abandon the course she'd set for herself. She loved this man, this infuriating, beautiful man, and she had known before this day that a good marriage required hard work to sustain it. She was willing to put in the effort, should Lucien be her reward, but she was less certain whether he understood the challenges that faced them.

"It's the way things have always been. I think in the beginning it was meant to protect the Queen, when marriages were more about politics than romance. She has a stout door she can lock whenever she wants."

"I don't want a locked door between us, Lucien," she told him, wondering at the hurt she saw in his eyes. Did he think she would prefer it that way? Did he think she was frightened of him? "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, my darling," he said, in a tone that seemed to imply _anything you want, whatever you want, you may have it. _Those quiet words from his lips reassured her somewhat, and she carried on at once.

"When you were married, before the war, did you and your wife keep separate beds?"

It grieved her, to mention his first wife to him now. Having lost a spouse, a lover, a man who had once been the other half of his soul, Jean knew how it could wound her to have the subject of her former marriage brought up without warning. The past had left a trail of scars across the pair of them, and those scars pained them both in bad weather. This little disagreement was hardly a storm, but clouds had gathered above their heads, and Jean hoped that when he looked at her Lucien could understand that she meant to dispel them, and not bring a torrent down upon them both.

"No," he answered slowly, the light of comprehension beginning to dawn in his bright blue eyes. "We slept together."

"So did Christopher and I. We've both done this before, Lucien. You know how it important it is to be close to the one you love. Sharing a bed isn't just about...sex," the word tripped haltingly from her tongue, but she could not, would not falter, not now. "And I know you know that. Our bed is where we will go at the end of the day, together. It's where we can talk to one another without anyone else around. It's the one place where you aren't a king, and I won't be a queen. It's ours, and I want us to have that, together."

What she did not tell him, what she was unsure whether she would ever be able to tell him, was that she recalled the security and the tenderness of the bed she'd shared with Christopher, and she longed, with all her heart, to know such peace again. _Never let the sun set on your anger, _her mother had told her once, and she had taken that advice to heart, had insisted that any disagreement she and Christopher might have between themselves be settled before they retired to their bed. And so it became a refuge, the place where they fell in together when their apologies had been spoken, the place where they healed one another, with tender words and gentle hands. That bed was the place where her sons had been conceived, where Christopher learned every inch of her, and she him, until they were as familiar to one another as their own hands. In the darkness they whispered to one another of their dreams, banished one another's fears, held their children close when nightmares sent them fleeing for the shelter of their parents' arms. That bed had been more of a home than the four walls that surrounded it, and she wanted that with Lucien, that comfort, that joy. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder, and let him hold her, wanted to be with him, always, when the passion took them and when it abated, when they were only just beginning and when they were both old and grey - well, greyer than they were now.

These words she did not speak, but she could see there was not any need; her point had been made, and Lucien understood her, now. He reached for her hand, and she let him, let him take hold of her, their fingers lacing together even as their hearts began to beat in time with one another.

"I want that, too," he told her. "I don't care which bed, I don't care where it is. But I want _us. _I want you and I, together, for as long as you'll have me."

"'Til death do us part, Lucien," she reminded him. Perhaps he feared that one day she might tire of him, might long for that stout door between them, but Jean knew better. Her heart, once given, could not be taken back, not for anything. She had accepted him, and there would be no turning aside from the choice she had made. And she did not regret it, not for a moment.


	55. Chapter 55

_7 December 1959_

_**A Statement by the Communications Secretary to King Lucien**_

_His Majesty the King is pleased to announce his engagement to Mrs. Jean Mary Beazley. While the King understands this news may come as a surprise to some, Mrs. Beazley has long been acquainted with the royal family by virtue of her many years of service, and the King has given all due consideration to their marriage, and believes their union will be a happy one. _

_Mrs. Beazley, __née Randall, was previously married to Sergeant Christopher John Beazley, who lost his life during the battle of Monte Cassino in 1944. She has two sons, Sergeant Christopher John Beazley, Jr., age 23, and John Thomas "Jack" Beazley, age 21. She has until recently been working in the hospitality industry in the village of Hebdow, where her friends and neighbors speak highly of her. _

_Further details regarding the engagement and the royal couple's plans will be announced in the coming days. Until then, His Majesty and Mrs. Beazley request that the public respect their privacy as they share their joy with their families._

* * *

_**From the desk of His Majesty, King Lucien**_

_Dear Christopher._

_I hope you will forgive this terribly official-looking stationary, it was all I had close at hand. And I hope you will forgive my writing this to you in a letter, rather than ringing you on the telephone, but I have no number to reach you, and I wanted to tell you with all haste._

_No doubt by the time this letter reaches you you will have heard the news of my engagement. I regret that I was not able to tell you of it myself, in person, but everything has been happening so quickly, there's hardly been a moment to breathe. It's been two days since the proposal, and already we've had to submit a formal announcement to the papers. It isn't at all how I wanted it, but some things are quite beyond my control at this time. _

_I am sure that this will come as a shock to you, that the King has proposed to me and that I have accepted. We talk so little, you and I, of the things that really matter, and this experience has taught me the importance of being honest with those I love most, and the importance of sharing my heart with another. The truth is, Christopher, that I loved him almost from the moment I first saw him. The truth is that he has become so dear to me that I can hardly imagine a life without him. I tried to, for a time - that is the true reason I moved to Hebdow to be with your Auntie Eadie. I was running from my love of him, and his love of me. But he did not give up on me, and he did all he could to ensure that we could be together, properly, that we could have the life we dreamed of together. He is a good man, a kind man, and I think that you will come to like him, when you finally meet him._

_And I hope that you will meet him, and soon. I know you will not want to use my newfound status to secure special treatment, but I want, more than anything, to see you, and Ruby and Amelia. I want you to meet the Princess Li, who will be your stepsister, and the little Princess Lin, who will be Amelia's cousin. I want to share this joy with you, and to discuss it with you face-to-face. His Majesty will gladly arrange leave for you this instant, if you will take it. If you will not, I hope that you will consider coming to visit us here at the castle the next time you are home. _

_I have not entered into this decision lightly. I know that the choice I have made will change all of our lives. I know that you may resent some of those changes, and can hardly blame you for it. But over the last year and more we have grown so close, he and I, and he is what I want. It just so happens that to have him, I must also take on the castle and the crown. He is inseparable from his position, much as he might wish it were not so._

_I know that you must have a thousand questions. I wish that I could hear them all, and answer them. All I can do is speculate. And so I will say this, as well; my love of him does not lessen my love of your father. You must know that, sweetheart. You must know that I loved your father truly, and I will always carry his memory in my heart. The king is widowed himself, and he understands that neither of us can replace the loves we've lost before. We have found a new love, and it does not erase the old, for either of us. _

_Write to me, if you can. Tell me if you want to come home, and I will do all I can to see that it's arranged. I love you, sweetheart._

_Do you have an address for your brother? I worry for him, and how he may react, but I have not seen him in some time, and I do not know how to reach him._

_Stay safe, my darling boy._

_All my love,_

_Mum_

* * *

_**The Courier**_

_**IN SHOCKING MOVE, KING PROPOSES TO HOUSEKEEPER**_

_In a shocking turn of events, the King's personal Communications Secretary announced in a statement today that His Majesty has just proposed marriage to one Mrs. Jean Mary Beazley. The question foremost in everyone's minds just now is: who on earth is Mrs. Beazley? _

_Following an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen this reporter ventured to the village of Hebdow on Sunday, the day after the King shocked the local populace by appearing in person to propose to Mrs. Beazley. There was no shortage of informants in the local pub - a charmingly disheveled place called the Pig & Whistle - where said proposal took place. It was inside the Pig & Whistle the I learned the story of King Lucien and Mrs. Beazley, and I share it with you now._

_On Saturday the 5th of December Mrs. Beazley was employed in the kitchen of the pub, where she had worked as a cook since leaving the castle in June of this year. She had previously been employed in the castle as a housekeeper following the death of her husband in 1944, and the circumstances of her departure from the castle remain unclear, thought the pub's patrons had no shortage of theories. On the day in question, all was proceeding as usual, until the arrival of Sir Patrick Tyneman. Naturally, the Prime Minister's presence in such a common place caused quite a stir, but it was nothing compared to what happened next. Sir Patrick sent for Mrs. Beazley, and told her in full view of the assembled crowd that she had Parliament's blessing to marry the king._

_The pub's patrons looked on in silent wonder as the King himself then marched into the pub, and knelt before Mrs. Beazley, offering her the ring that had belonged to Queen Genevieve, and his hand in marriage along with it. It should be noted here that in the history of our kingdom no King has ever knelt to any woman, even in the course of a marriage proposal, but it appears that it was genuine affection that compelled our King to so prostrate himself before his lady love. Mrs. Beazley accepted him, and he then kissed her so exuberantly he swept her clean off her feet, much to the delight of the assembled spectators. _

_There are many who would say that such behavior is unseemly, and smacks of a disrespect for the weight of the crown which sits upon the King's head. We certainly have never known its like, having always before been ruled by genteel, reserved statesmen who keep their personal feelings to themselves out of deference to the power they wield. But we have entered a new world, and it seems that King Lucien intends to be a new kind of King. He has chosen a wife, not on account of her station, her bearing, her birth, her ability to afford him further influence and further heirs, but on account of his love for her. And in so doing, he has reminded us all that whatever else the King may be, he is a man, and whatever responsibility the monarchy may bear, they are a family. _

_Mrs. Beazley has been a farmer's wife, a castle maid, head housekeeper of all the King's household, and a public house cook. She is a mother, and a widow. King Lucien has been a doctor, a soldier, a prisoner-of-war, and a King. He is a father, and a widower. Though I have discussed their shock engagement with no less than two dozen well-informed sources, I have yet to hear an ill word spoken of either of them. Theirs is a story of love, surviving against all the odds, surviving through heartbreak and separation. Two families torn asunder by war, united now in peace. May they be blessed, and may their union lead us all into joy in the coming days._

* * *

"Oh, that's a bit much, don't you think?" Jean asked, trying to discreetly wipe a tear from the corner of her eye, and failing miserably in her attempt to hide the rising tide of her emotions.

Beside her Lucien smiled, and laid the paper he'd been reading down on the breakfast table. Perhaps in coming days the press coverage would be less rose-tinted romanticism, but he was grateful that so far the public response to their engagement had been kind. They were only just sitting down to breakfast, but already flowers had begun to arrive, sent by politicians and nobles, and more would come throughout the day, of that he was sure. The whole world knew, now, that the King had proposed to his housekeeper, and Lucien wanted nothing more than to celebrate that revelation with the woman he loved.

"I don't know, I thought it was rather nice," he answered, reaching out to catch her hand in his own. "Are you all right, Jean? Now that the engagement is public, I mean. There's no going back now."

Jean squeezed his hand, her brilliant eyes shining at him in the early morning sunlight. "There never was any going back," she told him. "Not for me."

"Nor for me." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her gently, and then released her so that they might both reach for their teacups.

Breakfast was only just beginning; Li would no doubt join them soon, and Lucien was looking forward to that, seeing his girls together, helping them both to understand one another and begin to build the foundations of their new life together. But for now it was just he and Jean, alone together at the breakfast table, tucked away in a corner of the King's apartments. _We shall have breakfast together like this every day,_ _Jean and I, always. _

It was a lovely thought.

"I do worry what will happen, once they find out about Jack," Jean confessed, her eyes watching him closely over the rim of her teacup.

One day, one day very soon, Lucien wanted to ask Jean what exactly Jack had done, that he should cause his mother - and the Prime Minister - such grief. The boy would be his stepson, and he rather felt he ought to know. But he did not want to ask just now, not on this bright chilly morning when it seemed that all the world was on his side. He did not want to sully the happiness he and Jean had found with thoughts of darker times gone by.

"When the time comes, we will sort it out together," he promised her gently. "There is nothing that can stop us, Jean, unless we let it."

"And we won't let it, will we?" her voice was low and soft, more scared than certain, but Lucien was sure enough for both of them.

"No, we won't," he assured her. "Now, what have you got on for today?"

"I'm to meet with Alice after breakfast, and then I don't really know what I'll do with myself. I suppose she'll have some plans for me."

"No doubt she will," Lucien answered ruefully. "That's one thing you learn in this life, every moment has already been accounted for." The schedules seemed endless, the staff mercilessly devoted to them; sometimes Lucien rather thought that even his trips to the loo had been logged on his daily itinerary. Perhaps Jean would chafe at such restrictions, but she had an organized mind, and he did not doubt that she would rise above any limitations placed upon her person in order that she might live her life according to her own terms.

"Surely not every moment?" Jean asked him with a wickedly arched eyebrow; _Christ, _but he loved that woman. That he should find himself here, sharing a meal with her, watching her tease him, was itself a dream come true, and a joy. There were a good many things he wanted to do with Jean that would not be recorded in any logbook, but he knew that he must bide his time. Though she had allowed him to tumble into her bed once in the past they would be under more scrutiny now than ever before, and no matter how he might want her he would not allow anyone the opportunity to cast aspersions upon his darling Jean and her character.

"Actually, I have plans for you after dinner, Mrs. Beazley, if you are not otherwise engaged."

She grinned at him, then, and in her smile he saw his whole world, bright and beautiful. "I shall have to check my diary," she told him, but he knew she would be there, when darkness fell, and he knew the plans he had for them both, and his heart was light. _It's going to be a wonderful day, _he thought.


	56. Chapter 56

_7 December 1959_

_Dress warmly, and meet me in the foyer in ten minutes. _

That was all the instruction Lucien had given her. They'd enjoyed a wonderful meal together, Lucien and Jean and Li, had laughed and fumbled their way through a conversation about Jean's first full day as queen-to-be. There was much to say on the subject for it had been an eye-opening experience; she had met first with Alice, who had walked her through the daily schedule, the list of attendants who would be assigned to her person. Some would handle her diary, some her correspondence, some would manage her wardrobe and some her rooms, some would be in charge of her various patronages - which had in itself led to a long, meandering discussion of what sort of causes she might support, once she became queen. She would have her own driver and her own guards, and if she were inclined to purchase a horse or seven to fill out the stable on the castle grounds she would also have her own grooms. It was an exhausting list, but that was only the beginning. Next came a meeting with her personal communications secretary, who was keen to prepare a statement on her behalf, perhaps arrange an interview with a journalist, organize her first public appearance. _We have an opportunity here, _that beetle-eyed little fellow had told her, _to craft your public image from the ground up. We must be careful with how we proceed. _Jean couldn't have agreed more, but she did not know the first thing about public relations or the media, and had decided to seek out Rose Anderson come the morning. She was going to need all the help she could get.

And there would be no shortage of help, it seemed, for the castle was full to bursting with people whose job was simply to serve the royal family. Every possible task had a designated officiant, and Jean counted herself lucky indeed for the years she'd spent working in the castle had familiarized her with all of those people, and the roles they filled. Without that background, she feared she would never have been able to wrap her mind around it. She was struggling enough as it was, with the knowledge that those people would now serve _her. _That had not ever been the way of things in Jean's world, and she feared the road ahead would be bumpy indeed. But for now, just for this moment, everything was in hand. She'd enjoyed breakfast with her family, and supper as well, and now she was going to meet Lucien. Though he'd been positively gleeful when he asked her to join him after supper he had given her no hints whatsoever about his plans, and so she had carted herself off to her rooms, to change into a pair of trousers and her warmest jumper. It was December, after all, and the air had turned chill, almost bitter when the sun fell. Whatever he had planned he clearly intended for them to venture outdoors, and though Jean was eager to spend more time in his company a part of her hoped their journey would be brief, as the thought of all that cold did not sit well with her.

The moment she descended the stairs she saw him waiting for her in the foyer, her handsome, impossible king. He wore his heavy navy peacoat and carried his hat in his hands, and when he caught sight of her he smiled at her so brilliantly she could not help but return it. They had come such a very long way, had clawed themselves back from the very brink of devastation, and to be able to luxuriate in this happiness was a precious gift she would not squander.

"Hello, my love," Lucien said as she drew near. With a winsome turn of his wrist he placed his hat on his head with one hand, and reached out to her with the other. That hand she took in her own, lacing their fingers together and smiling up at him.

"Hello, sweetheart," she answered, as if they had not seen one another for hours, rather than ten minutes. "What on earth are you up to?"

"You'll see," he told her, still grinning, and with those words he began to march with purpose towards the front door, Jean following in his wake, still bound to him by their joined hands.

Darkness had well and truly fallen, the lights of the castle glimmering like stars behind them as they meandered along the winding path that led to the gardens. Though Jean lamented for her poor cold fingers she did not begrudge Lucien this little adventure; the gardens were beautiful, and at night they would be almost magical, the bushes strewn with twinkling fairy lights to herald the oncoming Christmas season. More to the point, however, the grounds would be deserted at this hour, and there would be no one to take note of the comings and goings of their king and his lady love.

"Do you remember that night at the lake house, when I found you in the glasshouse?" Lucien asked her as they walked.

"I do," Jean answered him gently, smiling as she remembered it. "When you'd promised me we could just be friends, and kissed me anyway?"

"Was my conduct ungentlemanly, my darling?" Lucien asked her then. In the darkness she could not see his face to read his expression, and so she could not quite tell whether he was teasing her.

"You promised not to kiss me if I didn't want you to," she answered him. How foolish it seemed now, to think that he had ever promised her such a thing, ever sworn to hold himself back from her. So much had changed, and while some of those changes frightened her, she could not help but think it was all for the good, for she and Lucien were together now, and always would be, and there was nothing to stop them from being honest with one another, nothing to hold them back from the love they carried in their hearts. They had loved in silence and secret for too long, and now they had at last found the freedom to be themselves.

"I rather thought you wanted me to." Oh yes, he was teasing her now, and Jean loved it, loved their easy way with one another, loved the comfort of his big hand wrapped around her own, the warmth of his voice.

"I think I rather did," she told him primly.

Lucien laughed and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her once as still they walked along.

"That was a beautiful night," he told her. "I was so lost. I hardly knew what to do with myself. And then there you were, beautiful and real, right in front of me. You reminded me what it is, to hope."

"Lucien-"

"And I remember," he continued, "how beautiful you looked, with the stars overhead. I remember how you said you miss the business of growing things. Do you remember what I said to you then?"

She remembered very well; every moment of that night seemed to have been etched into her memory, perfect and beautiful, a rare respite, a bit of peace. Life was different at the lake house; more relaxed, more comfortable. They were both more themselves there than they had ever been in the castle, for the rules of conduct in that place were far less restrictive. And recalling their conversation now, she realized where he must be taking her, what he must have done, and the breath caught in her throat.

"You said maybe you would build me a glasshouse, just like that one." At the time she had told him no, told him that he could not do such a thing for his housekeeper, but he had never forgotten his promise. No matter how hard she tried in the beginning, Lucien had never seen her as just the help, and _oh, _but she loved him for it, for the way he saw her, all of her, and loved her anyway.

"Indeed I did," she could hear the smile in his voice, and in the next breath they had rounded a tall wall of hedges, and tears gathered in the corners of Jean's eyes as she took in the sight before her.

"And I have, my darling."

They swayed to a stop together, their hands still locked with one another, as Jean and stared in silent wonder at this gift he had given her. The glasshouse here was easily twice as large as the one by the lake. The windows were frosted with condensation, but she could see a glory of green and growing things inside it, the beams of the ceiling hung with twinkling lights. How he had managed such a feat, when he had done it, she could not say, but she knew _why,_ knew that it was love that had compelled him, and her heart sang in her chest as she breathed in the beauty of that love.

"I started work on it, just after you left," Lucien confessed into the silence. "I knew you might not ever see it, but I wanted it to be here. Waiting for you. A reminder of the woman I love."

"Oh, Lucien," Jean gasped, turning to him as the tears began to spill down her cheeks. Gently he reached for her, and brushed those tears away with the pad of his thumb. It was nearly enough to break her heart, the thought of her king, alone and lonesome, missing her, building this thing that would bring him more grief than joy, building it for _her, _keeping it waiting. Just in case. Just in case she ever came back to him, he had created this thing, a dream he could touch with his own two hands, a piece of hope.

"It's yours, Jean," he told her earnestly. "Everything that I have, all of me, it's yours."

She could not stop herself, and she supposed there was no reason to, anyway; she flung her arms around his neck, and clung to him, let him in envelop her in his embrace, warm and hard and _real, _here with her, holding her. This was not a dream, not anymore; they were here, standing together, and she held everything she'd ever wanted in her arms.

For a long moment they simply stood, wrapped up in one another, but the night was cold, and Lucien had further plans for them. Gently he bowed his head and kissed her temple, and then he pulled away.

"Come and see, my darling," he told her.

And so she did, followed him as he led her out of the cold darkness and into the heated, mystical beauty of the glasshouse. It was much warmer inside, and everywhere she looked Jean saw the bloom of life, fresh and colorful, the smell of dirt and living things wrapping itself around her like a blanket. She had told him, once, that she had been a farmer's wife, that she missed the work, the earth, the joy of growth, and he had heard her words, and remembered. For so long she had been trapped in a life so far removed from the warmth of growing things, and her heart rejoiced at the thought of returning to the simple, blissful task o gardening.

"This place is yours," Lucien told her as he led her along the dirt path inside. "You can grow whatever you like. You can tend the plants yourself, or let the gardeners do it. Whatever you want, my darling, you shall have."

Jean wanted to tell him that it was too much; too much beauty, too much love, too much freedom. Never, in all her days, had she known such plenty, her every need, every want, every desire fulfilled. It didn't seem right, somehow, that she should have so much, when all her life she had had so little. But Lucien had done this thing, this incredible, wonderful thing, because he loved her, and she was learning to accept that love, to welcome it, and not look for disappointment.

Though she wanted to stop and take stock of the contents of the glasshouse Lucien was still walking, as if they had not yet reached their destination, and once more they turned a corner, and once more Jean was confronted with an unexpected gift. There was a place where the tables had been cleared away, and a gingham blanket had been laid upon the ground. There was champagne chilling in a bucket, and a little basket full of fruit, and there was, much to her surprise, a wireless sitting on one of the nearby tables, a gentle tune wafting out of it. How Lucien had managed to arrange all this she could not say, but it was quite the sweetest, most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for her, and Jean hardly knew what to say.

"I thought we'd take our dessert in private," Lucien told her, grinning as he gestured for her to sit down upon the blanket.

"You spoil me, Lucien," she told him, but she settled down on the ground just the same, tucking her legs up underneath her while Lucien hitched up his trouser legs and plopped down beside her. They slid into place by unspoken agreement, his arm wrapping around her back while she rested her head against his shoulder. The flowers rose tall and magnificent around them, the twinkling lights overhead adding a certain romance to the general scene, and while the champagne and the delectable items in the basket were tempting, all Jean wanted in that moment was to rest in the arms of the man she loved, surrounded by that love, and by joy.

"You deserve to be spoiled," Lucien told her. His voice was warm and soft, and coupled with the scent of his cologne and the flowers it sent a flood of heat washing over her. There was always someone watching them in the castle, a servant or a secretary or even Li, their every movement tracked. There would be few chances like this one, Jean knew, to enjoy her husband-to-be without a care for appearances. In the castle they had to be careful to toe the line of propriety, for nothing that happened there stayed secret for very long, and to be caught in a compromising position now would be risky for both their reputations. Here, though, they were completely, utterly alone, shielded from the world beyond by a wall of greenery, with no one but the flowers to bear witness. And so she lifted her chin, and gazed up at him, knowing what he would do when she looked at him this way, and wanting it with every piece of herself. She could not take him to her bed again, not until they were married, could not afford such a risk, but she could have a taste of him here, and she wanted it, desperately.

"I love you," she told him.

Lucien recognized his cue at once; she had only a moment to bask in the warmth of his smile before he ducked his head, and pressed his lips to hers.

The moment he touched her she was lost; she opened her mouth to him at once, a soft, happy sigh escaping her as his tongue chased after her own, his lips soft and sweet as she remembered, his beard scratching gently against her cheek. As he kissed her she shifted, eager to be closer to him, propping herself up with one hand pressed hard to the blanket while with the other she cradled his cheek, held him in place so she could return his kiss more fiercely than before. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her in, their bodies surging together, and still he kissed her, drank greedily from her lips while she gave him all of herself in turn. She wanted _more, _wanted the heat of his hands on her thighs, wanted to feel him press against her in the place where she had begun to ache for him, wanted her chest pressed flush to his, their bodies rising and falling as they began to breathe in sync with one another. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth and she arched towards him, hunger building in her now; she knew the freedom, the joy he could make her feel, and she wanted it, wanted _him, _so badly -

In the next breath Lucien reached for her, caught her hips in his hands, and she moved with him; she gave thanks in that moment for her decision to wear trousers, for it made it so much easier for her to straddle his lap, to settle down with her knees on either side of his hips. Their faces were on the same level now, and so she caught his head in her hands, brushed her thumbs along the rise of his cheeks while she stared into his eyes, those bright blue eyes that had ensnared her the moment she first took note of them. Her beautiful man, so strong, so brave, so utterly devoted to her; he could be reckless, could be selfish, could be arrogant, but his good qualities so far outweighed the bad that she loved him for his flaws as much as for his virtues. He was _hers, _unequivocally, hers to touch, to love, and as she looked at him she could hardly breathe for wanting him.

Their hips had settled together and she could feel his interest beginning to make itself known, and so with a sly grin she rocked down against him, watched as the tendons in his neck tightened, as his whole body went taut with longing, his chest pressed flush to hers, now, his eyelashes fluttering as passion began to build inside him. A gasp escaped her as she felt him straining for her, felt the answering call of her desperate desire. There was a simple, easy pleasure in this, grinding together like teenagers, her fingertips feathering along his throat while the friction built and burst between them, their desire growing hot and wet and fierce. He watched her, and she knew that he could see it, the way longing played out along her face, the way her own passion sent a crimson blush flowing from her neck up to her cheeks. They were so close, his hands wrapping around her thighs, fingers pressing, kneading, teasing out her yearning. Her breasts brushed against his chest with every ragged breath she took, and still she moved, could almost feel his hardness catching against the seam of her trousers, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing in just the right spot, and stars began to sparkle behind her eyelids. All thought had left her; there was only this, this closeness, this intimacy, the heat of him, the push and pull between them, but even this bright joy could not satisfy them, not for long.

"Come here," he growled, and in the next second she was kissing him again, while his hands trailed paths of fire along her thighs and her own threaded through his hair, holding him close. There was no one there to see, and so Jean did not stop; she gave herself over to her love of him, and reveled in the joy of the moment for as long as she could.


	57. Chapter 57

_24 December 1959_

"Oh, I'm not so sure about this," Jean murmured anxiously as she stared at herself in the mirror.

"Come now, Mrs. Beazley," Howard said, giving her an encouraging smile, "take courage! We both know this is the one. This dress deserves its chance to shine, and so do you."

What a dear man he was; Howard was a quietly renowned fashion designer in his own right, but the business he'd established for himself was now trucking along quite well without him, and he had jumped at the chance to take charge of the wardrobe for his queen-to-be. They'd spent rather a lot of time together over the last few weeks, discussing the image Jean wanted to present to the world and how Howard might make that image a reality. It had been an exciting but terribly strange sort of venture; in her youth Jean had made all her own clothes herself, and after the war she'd lived in the plain navy dresses that made up the uniform of a castle housekeeper. Though she had always taken pains with her hair, always taken the time to make sure the red polish on her nails was pristine and unchipped, she had not ever been the sort to concern herself overmuch with her clothing. Whatever she wore she liked for it to be pretty, and to fit her well, and beyond that she was not particular. But she was to be queen, now, and that required a wildly different approach to costuming.

Howard had been a godsend, in that regard. He had produced a bevy of smart tailored suits and demure cocktail dresses, had sent off to a couturier for all manner of lacy, silky things to go underneath them, and had procured a truly astounding number of beautiful, impractical shoes. But this dress she wore now remained his crowning achievement, and he cooed over it as a mother would her own child.

"It fits you beautifully," he reminded her, coming to stand beside her so that she could see his face in the mirror. "And it will stand out. There will not be a single woman in attendance who will be your equal, and that is as it should be."

Jean wasn't entirely sure that was true; no doubt there would be many ladies younger, taller, bouncier, more beautiful than she, but none of them would spend this evening on their king's arm, and so she supposed in that regard at least she would have no rival.

"It will certainly be the finest dress in the room," she told him.

And it would; oh, but it would. The king had announced his engagement, and had chosen this night to host a ball in celebration. It was Christmas Eve, and the castle ballroom would be crowded with men in tuxedos, the women beside them dripping in diamonds. The champagne would flow, and the food would be fine, the music lovely, as befitted a celebration in honor of a king of the realm and his lady love. It would mark Jean's first official appearance as the king's fiance, would serve as her introduction to a world of high society she had previously only observed from the shadows. They had all read the papers, heard the official statements read out on the wireless, but this would be the first time they would truly _see_ her, and so Howard had created this beautiful, glorious dress, so that when every eye turned to her they would have no cause to look away.

It was a long, flowing affair of crimson organza, the red so deep and vibrant Jean's pale skin glowed against it. It was tightly fitted from the waist to the neckline, the bodice encrusted with a pattern of beads that twinkled like stars when the light hit them. The sweetheart neck showed rather more of Jean's skin than she was accustomed to displaying, the cap sleeves of soft red lace barely covering her shoulders. Below the waist it flowed out beautifully, the skirt wide but not heavy; the way it would move when she danced, she was certain it would look like something from a dream. It was a dress fit for a queen, and Lucien had told her she could have all the queenly jewels she wished to go with it, but between them Jean and Howard had decided to allow the dress to speak for itself. She wore almost no jewelry, only the ring that Lucien had given her and a pair of diamond cluster earrings. Attendants had come and styled her dark hair, had helped to apply her makeup - and pouted when she told them she did not want anything too dramatic. _My face is my face, _that's what she'd always told herself, _and I won't try to hide it, or cover it up. _The persons in charge of her appearance did not seem to agree, but there were some advantages to her new elevated station, and they could not ignore her wishes.

"The time has come, Mrs. Beazley," Howard told her with a glance at his watch. "Are you ready?"

Was she ready? Ready to make her way out of this room, to meet Lucien upon the stairs, to take his arm and let him lead her to a ballroom filled with people all craning to get a look at her? Was she ready for the whispers, the politicking, the petty gossip of the elite, the expectations she feared she'd struggle to fulfill? Was she ready to step into her new role, to get her first taste of what life as queen would be like? She wasn't entirely sure, but she knew that waiting would not serve to help her in any way.

"I am," she said, taking one last look at her reflection, hardly recognizing herself. Her dark hair had never been styled quite like this, softly curling around her face instead of gathered behind her head. And she had never owned a pair of earrings quite this fine, and she had never, ever worn a dress like this. The curve of her hip, the gentle slope of her décolletage, the sharp points of her collarbones; the dress displayed every line and curve of her body to its fullest effect in a way that was as jarring to her mind as it was beautiful. Having lived so long in the shadows Jean was unaccustomed to the spotlight, but this dress would put her there, and no going back. But it was beautiful, and she felt beautiful in it, and she knew that it had been made just for her by someone who only wanted to see her shine.

"And thank you, Howard."

She turned to him, reached out to shake his hand, but he took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissed it once as he bowed his head in reverence.

"No," he said, "thank you, Mrs. Beazley. It has been an honor, and a privilege. Just between us," he added as they made their way out of her little suite, holding the door open for her so she could pass through it, "you are by far the best customer I've ever had. And after everyone gets a look at you tonight, my business is going to go through the roof."

"I wish you all the best," Jean told him, laughing. No doubt that was true; the dress was beautiful, and the woman who wore it would be _queen; _all the ladies of the court would be salivating over the chance to wear something made by the same designer.

Their journey down the corridor to the stairs was brief, and Lucien was already there, waiting for her. No doubt his own preparations had taken significantly less time, but he had lingered, for he had decided already that they should enter the party together. This one, and every one after, they would always be together, move together, a united front; the very thought made Jean's heart begin to glow with happiness. After so much time spent trying to put distance between them she could now be as close to him as she wished, and that was a beautiful thing.

And oh, how handsome he looked, in his fine black tuxedo. It emphasized the span of his broad chest, the strength of his shoulders, every inch of him regal and sophisticated. But when he finally saw Jean in her deep red dress his mouth dropped open, for a moment, his eyes going wide as if he were bowled over by the very sight of her. Howard hung back, at that point, knowing he was surplus to requirements but no doubt taking advantage of the chance to gloat on the effect his dress was having on the king. _Let him, _Jean thought, smiling as she made her way to Lucien's side; _he's worked so hard._

"Hello, sweetheart," she said to Lucien, his reaction to her appearance bolstering some of her flagging confidence. If Lucien liked this dress, that was enough for her.

"My God, Jean," he said in a low, reverent voice as he reached for her hand, "you look stunning." He was casting an appreciative eye over her, no doubt impressed by what the dress revealed, and Jean was glad to see it, the evidence of his desire for her written all over his face.

"So do you," she answered, and then on impulse she went up onto her toes, and kissed his cheek. She was still getting used to that, being able to kiss him if she wished, but indulging her love of him was growing easier by the day. In response Lucien slid his arm around her waist, and drew her in close to his side.

"They're going to eat themselves alive with envy when they see you," he told her, and with those words he began to lead her down the stairs.

"Only because I'm going to walk in with you," she answered. A good many noble ladies had been hopeful where their king was concerned, had done their best to draw his attention, vying for the chance to be queen, but he had gone and squandered his heart on the housekeeper, and no doubt all those fine ladies would spend the evening gnawing on their own livers.

"No," he disagreed, smiling. "Because you'll be the most beautiful woman in the room, and I'm the lucky sod who gets to marry you."

Jean would have kissed him again, but they had reached the doors to the ballroom, and a butler stood by, ready to swing those doors wide and herald the arrival of his king.

"Ready, sir?" the butler asked.

"Ready, my darling?" Lucien asked Jean in turn, watching her somewhat apprehensively.

Jean stood on the very precipice of a world so foreign to her she could hardly comprehend it. Her whole life had changed the moment she first met King Lucien, she knew that now. And it was changing still, by the minute. She'd spent weeks learning protocol, the duties expected of her, being introduced to an army of servants and attendants, learning how to be served with grace, rather than to serve in quiet dignity. The moment they stepped through those doors she would be plunged into a life of publicity hitherto unknown to her, her face on the front page of the newspapers, people everywhere talking about every word she said, everything she did, every dress she wore. She would be _queen, _and everything that went with it, starting in truth tonight, for all the rest of her days.

"Ready," she answered firmly.

* * *

"Might I steal the lady for a dance?" Sir Patrick asked.

They'd been lingering on the edge of the dancefloor for a moment, all of them trying to catch their breath. Lucien and Jean had opened the party together, dancing alone in the center of the room while Jean's crimson dress flowed like water all around them, while the guests watched in rapt attention. Whether they liked what they saw remained to be seen, but it didn't matter to Lucien; she had been every inch the queen, his beautiful love, had been kind and dignified, had been warm and charming. Her every smile was genuine, her laugh a delightful sound that encouraged mirth in others. And she had watched him, as they made the rounds, had smoothly intervened when some noble or other made a cagey remark that might otherwise have left Lucien cross; she knew how to read his mood, and she had saved them both from several moments that could have been quite awkward, if she had been any other woman. But she wasn't any other woman; she was Jean, and Lucien loved her with his whole heart.

"Only if the lady agrees," Lucien answered. Another man might have exercised more control over his fiancé's dancecard, but Lucien had no intention of keeping Jean to himself. She was her own woman, and that would not stop now that she was queen; whatever freedom he could offer her from within the walls of the castle he intended to give it, and gladly.

"She does," Jean said winsomely. Once more she kissed his cheek - the champagne had been flowing, and though Jean had been reserved in her consumption her cheeks were flushed a delicate pink, and she had been reaching for him more often, and Lucien was glad of it. Let her hold his hand, kiss his cheek, let her smile when he wrapped his arm around her and not pull away for propriety's sake; his heart was topfull with affection for her, and he relished the chance to show it.

And so Sir Patrick carted Jean off for a dance, and Lucien counted himself lucky for a brief moment alone. A moment to watch, and consider all that lay before him. The partygoers were still watching Jean closely, but there were more smiles than frowns. The servants who drifted through the party carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne were smiling at her, too; he had worried, at first, that some of them might be a bit sullen about waiting on a woman who had once been counted among their number, but those fears were proved unfounded. Everyone in the castle loved Jean, and they respected her, and seemed genuinely happy for her.

"She's lovely, Your Majesty," a quiet voice murmured in his ear, and he turned to find himself face to face with Joy, wearing a pale lavender dress of close-fitting satin and a strangely sad little smile.

"She is lovely," Lucien answered her carefully. He did not know what Joy wanted from him in this moment, and he was not eager to find out.

"You seem happy," she told him. "I didn't think you knew how to be happy."

"I don't," he said with a shrug. "Not without her."

"I wonder what that's like," she said, a faraway expression taking over her features as she stared out at the party. "To love someone that much."

"You'll find out one day, Joy." He was not entirely sure that was true, but it seemed the only thing he could say, and he wanted to offer her some solace, if he could. After all, he was fond of her, in her own way; Joy was not a bad woman, and he liked to think that one day she would find the right man for her. One who would understand her, and not hold her back, one who would share her outlook on the world and not exasperate her at every turn, as he was sure he had done.

"What do you say, Your Majesty?" she asked him then. "One more dance, for old time's sake?"

"Of course," he told her, smiling, and it did not occur to him until they reached the dancefloor and she slid into his arms just how it would look, the king dancing with an old flame at his own engagement party. Worry lodged itself into the back of his mind but it was too late to retreat; he would look like a cad, if he abandoned her immediately after taking her hand in front of all the assembled notables. And she did not deserve such treatment; she was a strong woman, self-centered but not cruel, and he could not believe her purposes in asking him to dance had been nefarious. Perhaps people would whisper, as he danced with Joy, perhaps they would wonder which woman their king truly preferred, but Lucien knew the truth, and so did Joy, and so did Jean, and he resolved himself not to worry about it.


	58. Chapter 58

_24 December 1959_

"You've handled it beautifully, Mrs. Beazley," Sir Patrick told her as he led them both in a stately waltz at the corner of the dancefloor. He was surprisingly light on his feet for a man of his bulk, and had so far been a perfectly pleasant and polite partner. "There's not many women who could do what you've done."

"I've hardy done anything," she told him breezily. As near as she could tell it was the various castle functionaries who'd done all the work, updated her rooms and sent out the official announcements and cobbled together her wardrobe. Jean had simply...carried on, had followed the schedule laid out before her and given her input when it was asked for.

"You haven't let it go to your head, and that's the main thing," Sir Patrick answered. "Sometimes when a person who is unaccustomed to power suddenly finds they've been granted rather a lot of it, they lose sight of themselves. Who they truly are, what matters most to them. I've seen families shattered by it. Don't lose your mind, Jean, and you won't lose him, either."

As they turned Jean caught sight of the dancefloor over Sir Patrick's shoulder, and as she gazed about at the glittering guests her eye landed on Lucien, dancing with Lady Ann. She was unmistakable in her lavender dress; from their previous encounters Jean recalled Lady Ann almost always wore purple. In the past she had wondered if it wasn't Lady Ann's way of announcing her intentions, her way of subtly indicating she felt herself entitled to the trappings of royalty. It was a regal color, after all, and Lady Ann wore it well. Perhaps she would have worn the title of Queen more comfortably than Jean did; was that why she was dancing with Lucien now? Reminding him of exactly what he'd given up when he'd let her go?

"I wouldn't worry about it," Sir Patrick told her softly. Jean blushed, ashamed at having been caught staring at her fiance and the woman he'd almost married, dancing so beautifully together. "And if you must worry, I'd advise you not do it where anyone can see. The walls have eyes, Mrs. Beazley, and tonight they're all trained on you."

The song drew to a close, and Lucien stepped away from Lady Ann at once, making a beeline for Jean with his gaze trained on her, his eyes a little wild.

"Thank you for the dance, Sir Patrick," Jean said as she broke away from her own partner. "And the advice. I won't forget it."

"Prime Minister," Lucien said as he reached them, his hand already extended towards Jean. "I think I'd quite like to take my fiance back now, if you don't mind."

"She's all yours," Sir Patrick said, and then he was drifting away, and Lucien and Jean were left alone together, her hand in his, where it belonged.

"I am sorry about that, my darling," Lucien said anxiously. "It was only a dance, I'm afraid I didn't think-"

"Hush now," Jean told him, giving his hand a little squeeze. "I trust you, Lucien. I love you. And I remember what you told me about her."

Yes, Jean remembered very well. _I don't give a damn about Lady Ann, _that's what he'd told her once, and when she looked into his eyes now she knew those words were still true. He was hers, as she was his, and whatever Lady Ann's reasons for seeking him out might have been, Jean knew Lucien would not change his mind, would not so easily reverse his affections from one woman to another.

_Let them say what they will,_ she thought, reaching out to ruffle the line of Lucien's beard with her fingertips. _Let them look, and see how much he loves me, how much I love him._

Lucien caught her hand against his cheek, held it there for a moment before turning his head to press a kiss against her palm.

"Let's get some air," he said, his voice low and gravelly. The party was in full swing around them but the hour was growing rather late; guests would begin departing soon, off to find their own beds before Christmas morning. Perhaps the courteous thing to do would be to stay, to make the rounds once again, to insure that every pompous windbag in the room got his five minutes with the king and queen-to-be. Perhaps they ought to play the benevolent hosts, and see the party through to its conclusion. Perhaps there would be whispers, if they slipped out the doors now; Jean's dress was designed to draw attention, and she knew their departure would no go unremarked. But it was late, and she'd had rather a lot of champagne, and she was tired and she loved him; if Lucien wanted to step outside, for any purpose, she would not deny him.

"All right," she answered, smiling, and at those words he grinned, and led her towards the corner of the ballroom. The periphery was lined with doors, leading to the foyer, the servant's corridor, smaller rooms, and a grand pair on the southern wall opened out onto a veranda overlooking the gardens. At first Jean thought Lucien meant to take her there, but the night was cold, and the doors were closed; to open them now would be to cause quite the commotion. She needn't have worried, however, for he led her to a discreet doorway half hidden by an ancient tapestry, and then they found themselves in a deserted corridor that led to the kitchens, and eventually ended at the far side of the castle, opening out on a path that would take them straight to Jean's glasshouse.

No doubt that was Lucien's intended destination; they had enjoyed more than their fair share of quiet moments in that place, and Jean was rather looking forward to another one. No guests dared come back here, but as they began to pass along the corridor Jean tugged on Lucien's hand, urging him to stop while holding her finger to her lips in a request for quiet. The corridor was not as deserted as it first appeared, and Jean did not want to disturb the young couple hidden in an alcove just to the left of the door she and Lucien had passed through.

She pushed Lucien back against the wall, all but holding her breath as she strained to hear the conversation playing out beside them. And she rather thought that Lucien must have felt the same, for he clutched her hand fiercely, and stood still as a statue.

"I think I would like to dance," Li was saying. She had entered the party not long after her father, but the crowds of people and their watchful eyes unsettled her, and she had excused herself rather quickly. Though Jean had hoped that perhaps with time Li might grow more comfortable in company she could hardly blame the girl; as strange as this world seemed to Jean at times she'd spent more than a decade living in the castle, learning how things worked. Li had not had nearly enough time to come to grips with her new reality, and she was isolated by the uniqueness of her features compared to the guests, by her rudimentary grasp of the language. She had chosen a somewhat plain dress in a pale shade of blue for the occasion, and though it fit her well, though she looked beautiful in it, the lack of ostentation in her appearance did not fit with the nobility's idea of what a princess ought to look like, and had not helped to endear her to them.

But despite all that Li was not alone, at the moment, and likely had not been all night, for Charlie was still with her, standing by her side, handsome and somber in his tuxedo. Perhaps the princess did not need a guard while inside her own home, but Charlie followed her everywhere she went, silent as a shadow but attentive, always, to her needs, and perhaps, Jean realized, Li preferred it that way.

"You should dance, then," Charlie told her softly. "I'm sure there's plenty of people in there who would be happy to dance with you, Your Highness."

"I don't want to dance with them," Li told him shyly.

_I don't want to dance with her. I only want to dance with you. _

Jean looked up at Lucien sharply, and found a strange, wistful sort of expression on his face. Was he remembering, as she was, that night in the kitchen, that night when he'd first held her, first kissed her hand, that night when something as simple as a dance had sealed their fate? Did he approve of the growing closeness between Charlie and Li, or did he fear for her? Jean had no daughters of her own, but each time she fell pregnant she and Christopher had discussed their hopes, their dreams, what it might be like, if their child were a girl. _I don't think I could stand to see some pimply boy holding her hand, _Christopher had told her once when she was pregnant with Jack, dragging his hand across the curve of her belly. _You and I both know what boys are like. Our girl deserves better. _Jean had laughed, and kissed the tip of his nose. _You were never pimply, _she'd told him. _And you are the best thing that's ever happened to me. _

Did Lucien feel as Christopher had done, that no boy would ever be good enough for his darling daughter? She was so young and had already been married once, and that had ended in disaster; perhaps he had more reason than most fathers, to want to protect his daughter from the interest of a young man. Or perhaps, she realized, he had more reason than most to hope that she would find a love to make her happy.

"Will you dance with me, then?" Charlie asked her. It was the right question, Jean thought. Li's tone had been hopeful, though her English was still halting; she was a reserved girl, and would not ask Charlie for anything out right, but perhaps he had come to understand her, in more ways than one.

Li did not answer him, and so Jean dared to peer around the corner, and when she did her heart swelled within her chest, for Charlie had taken Li into his arms, and they were dancing together, slowly, gracefully, to the soft strains of music drifting in from the ballroom. They looked lovely, and happy, and Jean wished them both the very best.

"Let's leave them to it," Jean whispered to Lucien.

He took a moment to lean in himself, watching his daughter dancing with the same lad who'd once taken a bullet for him. _What is he thinking? _Jean wondered. A castle guard was hardly an ideal match for the Crown Princess, but then the King was set to marry his own housekeeper; the old rules seemed to matter less by the minute, and she knew they had never mattered to Lucien at all. And who was to say whether this budding romance might last, whether Li might ever be ready to marry again, whether what she felt for Charlie was love at all, or just gratitude at having found a friend in this strange place?

_That's for them to sort out, _she thought as she led Lucien from that place, turning to walk down the corridor in the opposite direction from the dancers. _And I wish them luck._

* * *

"How about that, eh?" Lucien asked as at last they stepped out into the night. He paused for a moment at the start of the path, shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over Jean's delicate shoulders. The night was cold and clear, and they would both be shivering in seconds, but the glasshouse was not far away, and it was always warm.

"I think it's nice," Jean answered, smiling up at him.

In truth, Lucien's own heart was torn on the matter. Li was his light, his very world, his precious girl returned to him after so many years of lonely desolation, after so much grief, and he could not bear to see her heart broken again. She was so _young, _and a mother already, had already endured trials of the sort no girl should ever have to face. Part of his heart wanted, very much, to protect her, to keep her safe within the walls of the castle, to prevent any future heartbreak for her. And yet he knew that it was not his decision to make, that if he wanted his daughter to succeed in life he would have to let her make these choices for herself. And Charlie was a fine young man, and he knew he could hardly ask for better. Even if he wanted to box the lad around the ears for daring to put his hands on Li, however she might welcome such advances.

_I'll worry about this later, _he thought, slinging his arm around Jean's waist and leading her towards the glasshouse. An idea had come to him as he had watched Jean twirling on the dancefloor, her beautiful crimson dress flowing around her like the sea, her eyes bright, her smile delirious with happiness, and he very much wanted to make that idea a reality.

The grounds were currently deserted; a few discrete guards had been placed around the periphery of the castle as a deterrent for any party goers who got it in their heads to take a private tour of the grounds. Not that many would, given the cold. But the fairy lights strung through the rafters of the glasshouse were twinkling merrily, and it loomed before them, an oasis of warmth and beauty, their own safe haven, there amongst the blooms. In the next moment they were inside, and Lucien released Jean's hand so that he might watch her as she drifted down the winding dirt aisle, orchids and dahlias and begonias and ferns and more plants whose names he did not know growing bright and brilliant all around her. She looked, he thought, like a fairy queen from the old stories, resplendent, ethereal in that crimson dress, her fingers trailing against the worn wood of the tables that lined the path, her expression one of delighted recognition. She looked like some ancient goddess of wisdom, ageless and timeless, wistful and all-knowing. The twinkling lights overhead, the exotic blooms she greeted as if they were old friends, the paleness of her skin against the vibrant red of her dress; he loved her with fierceness that left an ache in his chest only she could fill.

"Lucien?" she called to him, turning when she realized he was not beside her, the ghost of a frown on her face. "Is everything all right?"

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world, my darling," he answered her, and with those words he began to prowl slowly towards her, trying to measure his steps, trying with all his might to contain the passion that threatened to overwhelm him. She was everything to him; Jean had saved him, revived him, brought him back from the brink of misery and given him cause to love again. She was in every song he heard, in every room he entered, her name written on every inch of the castle that was his home, tattooed on his heart. With her wisdom she had guided him through the difficult early days of his reign, with her kindness she had mended the fissures in his heart, with her level head she had shown him the way to make his family whole. And he loved her, every piece of her, with every piece of himself.

"We both know that's not true," she told him wryly, holding out her hand to him. He took that hand at once, and used it to pull her close to him, his arms sliding into place at the small of her back. "But as it's Christmas," she continued, a bit breathlessly, "I'll allow it."

Though he desperately wanted to say something clever and charming the truth was Lucien had nearly reached the end of his patience, and so he did not speak at all, simply bowed his head, and claimed her lips in a fiery kiss. She surged up towards him, beautiful and bold, knowing as he did that they were hidden away in this place, that they could do whatever they liked and no one else would ever know. It had become their habit, to take such solace here, here where they could hide, but they had so far managed to keep themselves on just the right side of the line of propriety. He had not been granted another chance to run his hands along the pale softness of her bare skin, to touch her as he dearly longed to do, to see her shudder in ecstasy, to hear her call out his name in bliss. But nor had he looked for such an opportunity, for he knew that his Jean was a good Catholic woman, and despite her previous moment of madness he did not expect to be granted a second showing.

But it was Christmas, and while their engagement was official it would be at least a year before they could wed. There was too much to do, too many protocols to be observed, for them to marry in haste. Patience had never been his strong suit, and he was not sure he would survive such a very long time in close proximity to Jean, and yet denied the bliss he knew they could find together. And so as he kissed her all restraint deserted him; his hands traveled the elegant slope of her back, her dress soft and warm beneath his palms, and she arched hungrily towards him, her kisses messy and eager, and with each passing second his want of her only grew.

Love was its own sort of madness, and it took hold of him then. He tried to pull her closer, but the bulk of that beautiful dress kept her hips too far from his own. Undaunted he bowed his head, let his lips trail against her neck, and as he did she sighed, and threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Jean," he growled her name, his hands clutching at her hips, fingers digging through acres of fabric in search of the shape of her, his teeth scraping lightly against her skin. He wanted to beg for her, wanted to strip them both bare and take her hard and fast on the dirt path beneath their feet, but he knew they both deserved better than that and he tried, for her sake, to find some decency within himself.

But Jean would not let him; her grip on his hair tightened, and in the next breath she spoke the words that would shatter his resolve.

"I want you," she whispered.

It was not the first time she'd spoken those words to him, and they hit their mark at once, bringing to his mind the memory of the beautiful night they'd shared, when he came home from China, came home to her, came crashing into her room, into her heart. Every moment of that night had been etched in his memory, never to be erased, and there was something in her tone that made him think she rather felt the same.

"What the lady wants, the lady shall have," Lucien told her, kissing her neck one last time before dropping carefully to his knees.

_This _was the idea that had come to him, while he'd watched her in the ballroom. That dress was beautiful, but the skirt was wide and full, and kept her from him. He could hardly gather all that material up to her hips, hold it in place while they wound their bodies together; there was simply too much of it. The problem of mechanics, as it were, had plagued him until inspiration struck him as if it were a bolt of lightning sent from the heavens, and he set about enacting his plan now.

Jean did not need him to explain his purpose; she leaned back and cast her hands behind her, propping herself up on the nearest table, watching him through hooded eyes as he knelt at her feet. And as he looked up her, this beautiful woman who had so completely ensnared him, it occurred to him that she was not a goddess at all, but a _queen. _

Silently, reverently, he reached for her, hands drifting under her dress until he caught hold of her calf. Carefully he urged her to lift her leg, to fling it over his broad shoulder, and the dress spilled away from her then, revealed the long, lean lines of her legs, bare despite the chill. Perhaps the length of the dress had encouraged her to go without stockings, or perhaps she had done it for just this purpose, or perhaps there had been no reason to her choice at all; he did not know, and it did not matter. All that mattered to him in that moment was Jean, above him, around him, her perfume billowing like the skirt of her dress, rich and fragrant. He could hear her shallow breaths, the little gasp that escaped her when he leaned in to press his lips against the softness of her thigh. Her skin was warm and smooth as silk, and soft, so soft beneath his lips, the salty taste of her exploding against his searching mouth. She shifted restlessly, canted her hips towards him as still he lingered there in the sanctuary between her her legs, nipping softly at her skin. Lucien had a plan, and he intended to take his time about it, to shower her with every ounce of the love he felt for her. The party, the guests, the castle, it all faded into nothingness until all that remained was Jean. She was beautiful, and his, and there was nowhere else Lucien wanted to be more than here, with her.


	59. Chapter 59

_24 December 1960_

"Stop pacing," Matthew grumbled, leaning heavily on his cane. "You're making me dizzy."

"Sorry," Lucien answered with a wry grin, but though he tried he could not seem to hold himself still for one full minute. He resumed his aimless wandering, skirting the perimeter of the cloisters, feeling a sense of anxiety that reminded him sharply of the last time he'd stood here, on the day of his coronation. The coronation had taken place on Christmas Eve, as well; two years had passed since that fateful day, and in that time everything had changed. The man he'd been then, bitter and lonesome and railing against his circumstances, was no more than a memory now. He had grown accustomed to the burden of power, had grown comfortable in his role, had rediscovered his child and his own beating heart, had found love enough to banish all the darkness that had come before, and he was happy now in a way he could not recall having ever been before.

"It's not as if she's going to change her mind," Matthew pointed out. "If she was going to run she would have done it a year ago."

Of course he was right; there had been plenty of opportunities for Jean to turn her back on him, to decide that this life wasn't what she wanted, but she was with him, still, and he knew she always would be.

And today, this beautiful bright day when the sun was shining and snow lay crisp and white upon the ground, she was going to marry him. The wedding itself had been a masterful feat of organization; the list of traditions to be observed, nobles to please, the feast, the cathedral, the carriages, the dresses, the attendants, the guest list, the television cameras, all of it had consumed the castle for every day of the last year, all of it building up to this, to now, to the moment when Lucien would stand at the altar and turn to see his bride walking down the aisle toward him. Every second of the day had been planned; Lucien and Matthew arrived first, riding in a horse-drawn carriage with Li and Lin and Charlie. The streets were lined with well-wishers, waving little flags, those with means throwing flower petals, those without cheering loud as they could. Every face he saw as they passed down the wide avenue leading to this place had been bright and smiling and full of joy, and it warmed his heart, to see how his people seemed to love him, seemed to be happy for him.

The ladies had been whisked off to another little room off the main sanctuary so that they might make their own preparations, and Lucien was left alone with Matthew, to wait while the guests filed in. After a time they would make their way into the sanctuary, and there they would wait, in full view of all the assembled notables, until Jean's own carriage arrived, until her son escorted her into the Cathedral, and the service could begin in earnest. While the thought of the ceremony itself was daunting - the thought of the many photographs and the party after more daunting still - Lucien could not wait for it to begin, for the sooner it began the sooner it would finish, and the sooner Jean would be his wife.

Everything about this moment of waiting, this deliciously tense sense of anticipation, seemed bright and full of possibility. The cathedral was a grand old building, a massive stone behemoth capped in a fine white marble dome; the floor was white marble, as well, and every inch of it was intricately carved, every niche and crevice, every joint and every arch. The sanctuary itself, where Lucien would stand and watch his beloved walking towards him, was a cavernous, soaring feat of engineering, stained glass windows in a rainbow of hues set high in the walls to send shafts of winter sunlight sparkling down upon the congregation like a benediction sent from heaven itself. There were gilded sculptures and rich antique tapestries everywhere he turned, and Lucien himself had been morphed into his own work of art, dressed in the heavy fur robes of state with his crown gleaming upon his head. Such grandiosity held little appeal for him, however, for he knew that Jean would outshine them all, would be resplendent no matter how she outfitted herself, for she always was, this woman he loved.

"It's time," Matthew said softly, glancing at his watch, and so he and Lucien turned, and stepped out from that place together.

* * *

"Are you all right?" Jean asked Christopher anxiously. They were sitting together in a horse-drawn carriage, open to the sky though the air was crisp and chill. The pale white horses plodded along at a stately pace, and the carriage trundled along while around them the voices of her countrymen rose in a roar of approval, a great thunderous sound the likes of which she'd never heard before.

"What a picture we make, eh?" he answered, looking as uncomfortable as she felt.

What a picture indeed; the carriage they rode in was painted white, trimmed in scarlet, and inlaid with a gilded pattern of creeping vines. The harnesses the white horses wore were crimson and gold, and the soldiers sitting straight-backed and smart behind them were dressed in crisp navy uniforms. Jean's wedding dress, a massive creation of pure white tulle and satin and lace, billowed all around her, and she had been given a white fur cape to wrap herself in for the ride in the cold air, clasped about her throat with a golden brooch inlaid with rubies. Young Christopher wore his own navy uniform, and looked so very dashing in it, tall and proud and every inch his mother's son. When the people who lined this street looked at them they did not see a farm wife and her reticent son, but their queen-to-be attended by a stony-faced soldier; they did not see the long months of silence Jean had endured between Christopher's letters, the bitter disagreements that had filled their past, the hunger and the grief of his youth, her own tireless work to keep her family together. _They expect to see a performance, _Lucien had told her once, and those words came back to her now. _We will give them one, and then we will take off the crowns, and be ourselves once more, in private. _

"They see one thing, and the truth is something else. And we know the truth, don't we, sweetheart?"

"I suppose so." Christopher gazed out at the crowd, his expression troubled. "You're sure this is what you want, mum? He is a good man, and I like him, but all of this..." he gestured vaguely towards the carriage as he turned to look at her, and in the movement of his hand he indicated not just the opulence of their current surroundings, but all the trappings of the life of royalty which waited for Jean when this day was through.

"I want him," she answered simply. "And to have him, I have to put up with all the rest of this. I know it makes you uncomfortable, sweetheart-" that was putting it mildly, for Christopher had insisted that his young family be kept out of the spotlight, that he maintain as much distance from his mother's new life as he could - "but the castle is my home. And as long as the king is there, that's where I'll be, too."

She had worried, as she spoke, that she had overstepped, had perhaps shared more than young Christopher was willing to hear, coming from his own mother. He was such a painfully reserved young man, this boy she'd raised; he had learned from her how to keep his lips closed and his heart hidden from view, and she worried, sometimes, that he had learned those lessons too well. And yet in the next moment he surprised her, her darling boy, for he reached for her hand, and held it tight in his own.

"When I first started seeing Ruby, I tried to warn her off me," he said. "I told her I couldn't promise her a perfect life. I told her I'd have to go wherever the army sends me, and we would have to move whenever they said, even if we didn't want to go, and sometimes I would have to leave her alone. And she told me that it didn't matter where we lived, or what we didn't have, so long as we had each other. That's when I knew she was the one for me." He grinned, a bit wryly. "We're lucky sods, the king and I."

"Ruby and I are lucky, too," Jean told him, her voice thick with unshed tears. And then she kissed her son's cheek and settled back against the seat, her heart full of joy for she had Christopher by her side, and Lucien was waiting for her, and she could not ask for more.

* * *

"It will be all right," Charlie was saying as Li knelt and straightened Lin's little dress for the third time. The other ladies had already begun their stately march down the aisle; no woman could wed a king unattended, and no woman could be queen without aid, and so over the last year a little coven of women had grown up around Jean, and Li as well. They were nobles, all of them, but they were mostly of an age with Jean, or older still, the unwed second daughters of once-mighty houses, the widowed mothers of barons whose sons no longer needed them underfoot and whose hands itched for occupation. The ladies were lovely, really, and had always treated Li kindly, but now that they were gone the moment had almost come for Li and Lin to make their appearance, and she fretted, as she always did when the time came for her to make a public appearance.

"I just hope she can stay still," Li answered, pulling herself upright. Lin had been given quite an important task; she would walk down the aisle holding her mother's hand, and strewing rose petals to herald Jean's arrival. Every eye would be on them, Li and Lin in their matching pale blue dresses, and though Charlie reminded her often that all those people bore her no ill will Li could not help but wonder if they would all be waiting in gleeful anticipation for her to make a mistake.

"If she doesn't, that will be all right, too. We'll look after her." Charlie flashed her one of his dear smiles, and she could not help but return it. From the night she arrived in this place Charlie had been by her side, his steady, somber presence a comfort to her. He was always there, to help her when she stumbled, always knew the way when she found herself lost and adrift, always made her feel _seen, _and understood, in a way that no one else ever did. Even when they could not speak the same language they had found their own way to communicate, and now that English came more easily to her she found her fondness for him only growing by the day.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she told him then, while Li twirled in her little blue dress and she clutched her own bouquet close.

"I'm sure someone else could have told you where to go," Charlie answered, humble as always.

"That isn't what I meant." She stepped up close to him, and pressed her lips to his cheek briefly. "I would have been so lost in this place, without you."

The music changed, and that was her cue to go. She knew she needed to leave, but Charlie was still smiling at her, and she could not quite find the strength to pull away from him just yet.

"You never have to be without me, Your Highness," Charlie answered her seriously. "And when this wedding is done, maybe we can plan our own."

Li's mouth dropped open in surprise; _yes, _they cared for one another, _yes, _they had danced together many times now, _yes, _she had kissed him, pulled him laughing into her bed, but she had not realized, before now, that he might wish to marry her, that such a thing might be possible. But he seemed so sure, so certain, and as she looked at him she could not help but think there was nothing she wanted more.

"Charlie," she breathed, but he just smiled, and gave her a little nudge.

"It's showtime, Princess," he told her gently. "We can talk about it later."

He was right, of course, this was no time to dawdle. And so Li took her daughter's hand, and lifted up the little basket of rose petals, and made her way out to the sanctuary, grinning fit to burst.

* * *

The music changed, and Lucien turned, watched as Li stepped into view, the smile on her face so brilliant and wide that he was thrown off balance for a moment, thinking how he was not sure he had ever seen her look quite so happy. Lin toddled along at her side, holding her mother's hand and staring around her, dark eyes wide in wonder. They wore matching pale blue dresses like all the other ladies, lace sleeves running down their arms, their long, dark hair spilling elegantly around their shoulders. Well, Li looked elegant. Lin was a charming little thing, all chubby cheeks and waddling knees, but elegance was a few years off for her yet. As they walked along Li bent and whispered something to her daughter, and Lin reached into the basket her mother carried, sprinkling red rose petals on the floor as they went. The effect was a bit haphazard, but the result was nothing short of adorable; she laughed gleefully as the petals hit the floor, and he could see the guests smiling at her indulgently, smitten with her already.

Though it was not part of the plan for the day Lucien stepped forward as his daughter neared him; he reached for her, and drew her into his arms, kissed her cheek and whispered to her softly in Mandarin, "_I love you." _He did love her, had always loved her, would always love her, and he took every opportunity to tell her so, even here, where such personal affection was often frowned upon.

"_I love you, too, Papa,"_ she answered as he pulled away. "_Be happy."_

"Apa! Apa!" Lin cried from somewhere in the vicinity of his knees, holding her chubby little arms to her grandfather. Lucien fancied he heard several indulgent chuckles from the crowd as he swept her off her feet, gathered her in close for a little cuddle. _Christ, _but he loved that little girl, the way she giggled when his beard tickled her cheek, the way her mother smiled at him, the way they had all come together, and made their family whole. But he could not stand there holding Lin forever; at the far end of the sanctuary the wide doors swung closed, and he knew that Jean was approaching, that the moment had come.

"Let's give you back to mummy, eh?" he said to Lin, passing her over to Li at once. The whole ceremony had been rehearsed countless times and so Li knew just where to go, where she was expected to stand, and as Lucien watched her depart he saw Charlie come sidling in from the side to take his post at a respectful distance, his eyes never leaving the Princesses who were in his care.

A great fanfare sounded and the priest gestured to the crowd, and as one they rose to their feet, turned to stare down the aisle towards the imposing doors that separated Lucien from his beloved. He took his place at the altar, caught his hands behind his back, and held his breath as the great organ swelled into life, music flowing in and over him, as the doors slowly swung open once more, and Jean stepped into a shaft sunlight just inside them.

There were not words for the beauty of her. The dress was huge, white and beautiful, the train extending far out behind it, minded by a horde of young noble children. The sleeves were lace, soft and sheer, the neckline demure but showing the sharp notch of her collarbones. Her dark hair had been carefully curled, and she wore a long white veil, though that had been thrown back to cascade down the slope of her spine, to reveal her angel's face, her brilliant smile, her sparkling eyes. She stood arm-in-arm with young Christopher, and after a moment's pause to allow their guests to take in the radiance of her they began to march together down the aisle, drawing ever closer to Lucien.

The last year had been full of tumult, for all of them. Lin had taken ill in the summer and given them all a terrible scare before she recovered, and there had been some grumbling about Jean's son Jack - who had refused to answer any of his mother's letters, and seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth, so complete was his absence. There had been moments when Jean struggled to cope with the bindings of her new life, when all the people constantly underfoot and the never-ending restraints on Lucien's time made them both chafe at their lack of freedom. They had argued about Lucien's recklessness and laughed about nothing, had danced and kissed and lingered on the stairs, each of them knowing they could not go to bed together, each of them wanting to stave off the moment of their inevitable parting. There had been forms to sign and funerals to attend, fundraisers and state functions, unfavorable news articles and mutinous rumblings from Lucien's detestable cousins. But through it all they had been slowly winding their way to this moment, this marriage, this love, and Lucien did not begrudge a second of their engagement, now that they were each at last about to claim their reward.

As Jean drew nearer the details of her features came more sharply into focus. A silver coronet held her lace veil in place, inlaid with rubies that sparkled when the light hit them. There were pearls on her dress, and her nails were painted red, but _oh, _it was her face that held him in thrall, the little wrinkles at the corners of her eyes as she smiled at him, the full red of her lips, the single tear that slipped down one of her pale cheeks. She was so beautiful, and _happy, _as Lucien was happy, and that happiness shown from her as if the sun itself was carried within her heart.

Protocol called for him to stand and wait for Christopher to step aside, but once again he disregarded it. As they drew near he stepped towards them, no longer content to wait, and reached to shake Christopher's hand. _That_ was not part of the arrangement, but the lad was to be his stepson, and Lucien wanted to treat him kindly now. Christopher shook his hand once, firmly, kissed Jean on the cheek, and then slipped away.

"Oh, my darling," Lucien said, holding out his hand to Jean. She took it, another tear slipping out as she looked at him, her eyes full of the same wonder he felt within his own heart. Gently he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed it. "I have waited for you, for such a long time."

"No more waiting now, Lucien," she told him as their fingers slid into place, and so they turned to face the priest and begin their life in earnest together.


	60. Chapter 60

_24 December 1960_

Lucien had always been of the opinion that a wedding ought to be entirely about the bride and groom. Well, perhaps more about the bride than her doting husband-to-be; she was the one whose appearance would be most closely inspected by the guests, the one who would be blamed should anything go wrong on the day. The flowers, the music, the bridal party's clothing, even the food, all fell under the purview of the bride, while as far as he was aware the groom's job was simply to turn up on time, sober, and agree to whatever demands his lady love might make, however grandiose, in hopes of smoothing his way to the marital bed. Not that Jean was a particularly fussy bride; the Earl Marshall had been harder to appease than she. But while he had previously believed that the day itself was meant to be a celebration of two people, their shared desires, their lives now inextricably intertwined, he found that his own wedding day had been rather less about _him, _and rather more about the _crown. _

The crown must have its due, always. The sheer number of intricate ceremonies involved in the marriage of a king and the making of a queen - for the two tasks had been accomplished on the same day in a feat of pageantry the likes of which he hoped to never see again - was enough to make his head spin. _Stand here, go there; wave to the crowds from the balcony, smile for the cameras, speak to that man not to this, dance when we tell you, sit when we tell you, and never do either out of order. _On and on it went, all bloody day, and the only thing that got him through it, the only thing that kept him steady, kept him smiling, kept him from losing his temper each time some functionary interrupted him in a quiet moment with yet more demands upon his time, was his girls. His three beautiful girls, Jean and Li and Lin, their calming presence, their gentle smiles, the happiness that seemed to shine from each of them, they reminded him what this day was really about, when the slavish obedience to tradition nearly made him forget. It was a day for love, and a day for family, a day for hope, a day for _Jean, _and as such he knew he would treasure the memory of this day in his heart, always.

But every day, even a day so momentous as this, must come to an end, and it was the ending he was looking forward to most, for when the end came he would take Jean's hand and lead her up the stairs to the suite of rooms they were meant to share, would not have to part from her to seek his bed alone and lonesome, but would be blessed to spend this night, and every night after, wrapped up in her arms. They had stolen a few precious moments of bliss for themselves over the year since his proposal, but those moments had been infrequent, and brief, far too brief. Tonight, Lucien intended to take his time.

The protocol called for those party goers who were still assembled in the castle ballroom at midnight to send the King and his new Queen off to bed in style, with a toast and no doubt a significant amount of bawdy catcalls and applause. The thought of drawing such attention to himself, and his bride - and what they were about to do - was a galling one, and so at five minutes to Lucien caught Jean's hand in his own, gave her a little wink, and led her to one of the servant's corridors off the ballroom quite without anyone else realizing it. No one had been looking for him at that moment, and they were all drunk and dancing; _let them have their merriment, _he thought, _and we shall make our own. _

"Oh, is it unkind of us to slip away like this?" Jean asked as she walked along beside him, one hand holding his, the other holding up the massive skirt of her dress so that she didn't step on it. Her monstrous train had been removed for the party but the voluminous skirts still billowed wide about her feet; how she'd managed to dance while wrapped in all that fabric Lucien wasn't entirely sure, but she had done it beautifully, as she did everything, beautifully.

"We deserve to keep something for ourselves, don't we?" He answered. A bit of privacy, a bit of peace; that was all he wanted, all he longed for in this moment. The corridor was deserted, the back staircase equally so, and so they made their way towards their suite unnoticed, whispering softly to one another. It had been Lucien's hope that they would slip behind the doors of their rooms entirely unnoticed, but it seemed that such a boon was too much to hope for; his valet Peter and Jean's maid Lucy were standing together in the corridor outside the royal bedchamber, each of them looking a bit awkward, a bit uncomfortable, a pair of frightened rabbits caught in the sights of a hawk.

"Your Majesty," Peter said with a clumsy attempt at a bow, though Lucien was unsure whether it was embarrassment or champagne that made him stumble.

"Something I can do for you, Peter?" Lucien asked him winsomely.

"We're here to help with the clothes," Lucy answered hesitantly. She was a timid girl, and Lucien knew hardly anything at all about her, except that Jean seemed to adore her, and that was good enough for him. "We'll help you dress for bed," she continued, her cheeks brushing brilliantly as she stared firmly at her toes as if the thought of the king and queen and _bed_ was too much for her to bear, "and then we'll take our leave."

"I think we can manage for ourselves," Jean told her gently. It was a much kinder response than the one Lucien wanted to give; he hardly needed a pair of children underfoot, tugging at his clothes and blushing like virgins when he was a hair's breadth away from taking Jean in a proper bed for the first time in eighteen months. It was the wedding night he'd been looking forward to more than most anything else, and he did not want to put it off for another moment, but Jean's timely intervention had spared him the indignity of pouting.

"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," Lucy protested, looking faintly horrified at the very idea, "but the dress, it's...complicated, and everything underneath it -"

"I think you'll find, Lucy, that I have a number of talents," Lucien told her firmly. "I doubt I'll have any trouble getting my wife out of her dress."

Lucy squeaked in shock and Jean shot him a dark look, but Peter had been working for the king for two years now, and he knew when to pick his battles.

"Come on, Luce," he said, taking the maid by the arm. "Apologies, Your Majesty."

And then they turned and fled, the pair of them; over the sound of their retreating footsteps Lucien could hear them whispering furiously to one another, but he could not have cared less, for the time had finally come when he could, at last, be entirely, properly alone with his Jean.

"You've just scarred that poor girl for life," Jean told him as he held open the door to the King's suite for her and she struggled to squeeze her dress through it.

"I'm tired of interruptions, my darling."

Lucien stepped through the door behind his new-made wife, and breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the lock. Alone, at last, and what a joy it was. Champagne was chilling in a bucket beside the low table in the parlor, a basket of fresh fruit sitting out waiting for them. Every where he turned he saw bouquets of fresh flowers, and warm fires had been laid in fireplace. There was a tall, splendidly decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the parlor with a pile of brightly wrapped presents beneath it. The doors that connected the King's suite to the Queen's had been flung open, but the curtains were closed, and altogether the series of rooms seemed rather cozy. It seemed, he thought, like a home.

"So am I," Jean answered, turning to face him. For a moment he simply gazed at her, this woman he adored; she wore a simple silver circlet nestled amongst her dark curls, and her wedding dress was as magnificent now as it had been when he first saw her, with its soft lace sleeves and pearl beading, its full skirt billowing beneath the sharp tuck of her waist.

"What are you thinking?" she asked him then, and he could not help but smile as he answered.

"I was thinking how lucky I am, to have married you."

The space between them was not so very great, and he crossed it in a moment, slid his arms around her waist while her own wrapped around his neck. Up close like this, so close he could almost catch the faintest hint of her perfume, she was lovelier still. There were other women whose faces were unlined, whose attributes might garner higher praise, but to him she outshone them all, for he knew her, body and soul, knew her heart and her mind, knew every piece of her, and it was that knowledge that leant her a beauty none could match. She was made for him, he thought, the one woman in all the world who could understand him, who could stand beside him, could temper his impulsivity and encourage his better nature. _And I am made for her, I think, made to hold her._ He meant to tell her so, but she did not give him the chance, for she smiled at him then, and raised herself up onto her tiptoes, and he knew at once what it was she wanted of him, and sought to give it to her.

He bowed his head, and in the next breath their lips met, brushing together sweetly, fleetingly; he could feel her smile against his mouth, could feel her arms tighten their grip upon him, and he returned that smile, seeking to catch hold of her once again. But she would not let him, not for long; it was like a game, of sorts, the way she would allow him one single kiss, but when his lips opened against hers she moved again, made him reach for her, follow where she led. It was, he decided, his favorite sort of game, but one which he could not afford to lose.

"I think it's time," he whispered against her skin, "for us to get you out of this dress, Your Majesty."

He could not hold her properly so long as she was wearing it. His hands had settled just above her hips, and while he relished that contact the full skirt kept him from drawing her any closer, and he was in truth a little concerned he met step on it in his haste to reach her. He was more than ready to dispense with it, but peeling her out of it would also provide him with the opportunity to tease her as mercilessly as she had him, and he was looking forward to that immensely.

With his hands on her waist he turned her until her back was facing him, and he pressed his palms flat against her belly, leaned forward over the bustle of her dress so that he could nudge her hair aside with his nose, and press a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. The view of her from behind was every bit as lovely as from the front, but it had revealed to him one minor detail that had somehow escaped his notice throughout this trying, wonderful day.

A line of delicate pearl buttons ran the length of Jean's spine, from her neck where he kissed her to the place where the bustle swelled over her bum. They were beautiful, those little buttons, shining in the firelight, but there were so bloody many of them, and they were so bloody small. It had been his intention to tease her, but now he rather felt that he might be the one suffering as a result of his efforts. In order to get her out of the dress without ruining it completely - and there had already been talking of donating the dress to a museum, to be kept for posterity, and if that were the case he knew he could send it out into the world ripped from his passionate attention - he would have to take on this task whether he had patience enough for it or not, and so he took in a deep breath, and set to work.

Each of those little pearls had been carefully slid through a small loop, no doubt by that poor maid Lucy, but Lucien was certain that putting them in must have been much easier than getting them out. His surgeon's hands turned clumsy with impatience somewhere around the third button, and Jean let out a breathless little laugh when he grumbled.

"I though you said you wouldn't have any trouble getting me out of my dress," she told him smugly.

"I assure you, my darling, it isn't any trouble at all. I'm savoring the view." To prove his point he spread apart the fabric as best he could, and pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her back, and thus began another game. Every two or three buttons Lucien paused in his work to kiss his wife, to feel her sharp intake of breath beneath his mouth, her shoulder blades spreading like wings as she moved against him, eager for the touch of his lips. Each pause allowed him a moment to calm himself, and remember the promise he had made deep in his heart, the promise to take his time, not to rush, to shower Jean with every ounce of the love he felt for her. The buttons would not last forever, but as the back of her dress slid open beneath his fingertips it revealed another secret; a corset waited for him, white and unyielding, neatly tied with white ribbons criss-crossing the back. It was not a full corset, not a proper one; if he could have seen her from the front he was certain he would have discovered that it sat below her breasts. But it maintained the shape the dress with a steadfast obstinacy, and as more and more buttons came free he could not help but wonder if she had been dreadfully uncomfortable all day long, confined and constrained as she was. It was the last thing he wanted; Lucien knew very well exactly what his wife looked like out of her clothes, and he loved her just as she was, without all the accoutrements. Perhaps if she had been in discomfort all bloody day, he thought as he reached the final button at the base of her spine, he ought to make it up to her.

And so the moment the last button was free he stepped up close to her, and slid his hands beneath the dress. Her arms were still in the sleeves and that skirt would not have moved if a bomb struck it, but the fabric parted, allowed him to skim his palms across her sides and over to her belly. He could not feel her skin for the corset barred his path, but he could feel the way Jean's breathing changed as he touched her, shallow and full of want now. Slowly, very slowly, he dragged his hands upward even as he leaned in to rest his chin against his shoulder, turning his head to press gentle kisses to the side of her neck.

"Lucien," she whispered his name into the stillness, but he did not answer her, only carried on until at last his hands reached his goal. His previous suppositions had been correct; the corset lay just beneath her breasts. Above it the bra she wore was white and lace; he had seen the satin band of it from behind and deduced its color, and he felt the scratch of the lace beneath his palms now. Gently, reverently he cradled her breasts in his hands, felt the warmth and the comforting weight of them, heard the soft sigh of contentment that slipped past Jean's lips and grinned against her neck in delight. She had teased him before, and _oh, _but he was teasing her now, held her firmly in place with his arms around her, held her spellbound beneath the touch of his hands, and _oh, _what bliss it was, to be allowed such unfettered access to her, to give no thought to the time, or who might stumble upon them, to simply linger here, in this moment when she was beautiful and wanting him but they were both of them still dressed. He pressed his hands more firmly against her, kneaded her softly, coaxing out another beautiful sigh while she cast her head against him and pressed herself more firmly into his grip. And still that beautiful, brilliant white dress contained her, hid her from his sight just as it hid him from hers.

Jean fared no better with teasing than he did; after a moment she lifted her hands, pressed them against his own over her dress, encouraged him to increase the fervor of his ministrations even while she turned her head towards him as if eager for a kiss. He gave her one, but only one; their lips brushed together, her breath washing warm and sweet across his skin, but when her tongue flicked against his lips he pulled away, grinning.

"Now," he said. "Shall I help you out of this wonderful dress, my darling?"

"I thought that's what you were meant to be doing all along," she answered breathlessly, but there was a smile in her voice, and it made him glad to hear it.

With a bit of fumbling and more than a few giggles from Jean they managed it; she slid her arms free of the sleeves and then held them over her head, still and patient, calm and lovely and trusting him completely, while Lucien wrangled the dress up and off her. He had thought to pull it down so that she might step through it, but she had quickly corrected his error; the skirt of the dress would have withstood an aerial attack, so complete was its fortifications, and no amount of prodding from him would force it down. The thing very nearly stood up on its own, once he got it off her, but Lucien did not take the time to test his theory, for as he cast it aside Jean turned to face him, and the breath left his lungs entirely.

What a picture she made, this love of his. As much as he might have enjoyed it she was not bare beneath the dress; such a creation could not be worn unaided. There was the white bra he had felt beneath his hands, its straps and band a wide satin ribbon, its cups lace and completely sheer, her rosy pink nipples pebbling enticingly beneath. There was the white corset he had glimpsed as he unfastened her dress; it sat just below her breasts and hugged her figure snugly, highlighted the sharp tuck of her waist and the neat flare of her hips to their fullest effect. There was a tantalizing glimpse of her skin, the barest inch of pale soft flesh, and then there was another crinoline skirt, white and billowing from her hips to her ankles. She still wore her shoes but as she looked at him she kicked them off and lost three inches of height in the process, but he was glad of it, for now she seemed more like his Jean, with her red-painted toes, small enough now for her head to nestle beneath his chin.

"Hardly seems fair," she murmured, not blushing as he drank his fill of her but instead stepping towards him, reaching at once to pick at the knot of his tie.

"I can't believe you've been carrying all this around all day," he told her, letting his hands settle on her tips, fingertips on the hunt for her skin, delighting in the way she shivered when he found it. The dress had been heavy, and while the garments underneath it were breathtakingly beautiful she could hardly have been comfortable, trussed up like this for hours. In truth he felt a bit guilty; whatever discomfort his tie and his too-tight shoes might have given him seemed to pale in comparison to the sacrifice she'd had to make in order to present herself this way.

"It's just for one day," she said simply, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she slid his tie free and tossed it in the general direction of her dress. "And it was worth it, just to see the look on your face."

"When you walked into the church?" That was a moment he'd never forget, when he got his first glimpse of Jean walking down the aisle towards him, shining like the sun. He had not wondered, before now, what she'd seen when she appeared before him, what expression of delight must have danced across his face, but he hoped that the memory would be a happy one for her, as it was for him.

"When you look at me now," she corrected him gently. Her hands were still resting against his neck and she slid them up so that she could cradle his face, her thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. "These are the moments I cherish most, when it's just us, and you're looking at me like this."

"Like what?" he leaned towards her, let his forehead rest against hers, their noses side-by-side, her breath against his lips.

"Like you love me," she whispered.

He kissed her then, because he could, because she was right, and he loved her, loved her to the point of madness, loved her enough to follow wherever she might lead, loved her enough to forsake everything just for the chance to hold her. She would never let him, of course, had forced him to remember his responsibilities when he would more happily have set them aside, did whatever she must, no matter how it hurt, to ensure that he would never forget the noble duty with which he'd been charged. Those dark days of loneliness were behind them, now, the memories fading fast, and it was hard to believe there had ever been time when she was beyond his grasp in this moment when he held her close, and kissed her deeply, when her hands tangled in his hair and his own held fast to her hips and her tongue tangled gently with his between parted lips.

A fire was growing, low in his belly, a want, a need for her, a desperation that would not be satisfied until he had her stretched beneath him in one of the two grand beds that flanked the suite. The seconds passed and the kiss they shared changed from sweet and tender to messy and grasping, both of them quite overcome with need. Perhaps he could have lifted her up, set her down upon the dressing table and bunched that skirt around her hips, torn his way through whatever further impediments lay beneath it until at last he could plunge himself inside her, but he had promised to take his time, and that was what he intended to do. They would have a bed, and a moment of peace, a chance to lie together utterly bare for the first time since he'd come home from China. It was what they deserved, he thought, what _she _deserved, and he was determined to give it to her.

"This has to go," he told her, tearing away from her lips and curling his fingers beneath the top of her corset.

"God, yes," she gasped, smiling. "And once it's gone we can burn the damn thing."

Lucien grinned at her brightly; he was fairly certain he had never once heard her say the word _damn, _and he was delighted to hear it from her now, to think she felt so free with him that she could say whatever she wished.

"Come, then," he said, and turned her in his arms, once more facing the elegant slope of her back. This job would go more easily than the last, he thought, for the ribbons seemed much easier to grasp than those damnable buttons had been, but as he reached for the ties that contained her he could not help but think of poor Lucy, the maid, and how she'd protested that the dress was too _complicated _for him to dispatch with it himself. The complexity of Jean's garments had not stumped him, but no doubt their evening would have progressed much more swiftly to its logical conclusion if Lucy had helped Jean undress first. And yet he was grateful for the time he was taking now, the gentle intimacy of setting his new wife free from her many layers himself, watching as each new piece of her was revealed at last to his hungry gaze. They would have gotten on just fine without this interlude, but there was a beauty in it, their coming together this way, slowly, with love, with no one else underfoot.

The ribbon slipped slowly through his fingers, and Jean breathed a sigh of relief as the corset's constraints eased, and she found herself able to relax for the first time all day. He heard that sigh, felt in the movement of her body beneath his hands, saw it in the shiver that raced across her pale skin. The task at hand was a methodical one, and Lucien was grateful for it, grateful for the means to focus himself, to give him a chance to take a deep breath, and calm his own racing desire. One side, and then the other, he puled the lacings free until at last the corset was loose enough, and Jean once more raised her arms above her head, and let him strip the corset off her. That, too, was discarded, and before he reached for her Lucien took a moment to peel off his own jacket; the heat within him had grown nearly impossible to bear, and he was wearing rather a lot more than Jean was, at present.

Once more she turned to him, smiling to see his jacket fall to the floor.

"That's better," she said.

Lucien wanted, very much, to answer her, but the only thought that came to him was how beautiful she was, bare now from the waist up except for the ribbons and lace of her bra, which hardly covered her at all. It looked as if it had been made to fit her - and probably had been, considering the fact that every other piece of her fast growing wardrobe had been tailored specifically for her - and the curves of her body were so enticing he could hardly draw breath. He reached for her, gently, his palm against her belly, soaking in the warmth of her. The corset had left angry red lines across her soft skin and so he took her in both hands, kneaded her sides gently, as if to coax away the memory of discomfort. She sighed, and seemed to melt in his grip, let her forehead fall against his shoulder while his hands worked against her and her breath warmed his neck.

"That feels lovely," she whispered.

"_You _are lovely," he told her. And she was, lovely, was beautiful, and the trust she placed in him, the vulnerability of her soft and pliant beneath his hands, letting him touch her as he pleased as if she knew he would never dream of hurting her, that was beautiful, too, a gift he wanted, very much, to earn with his own tender regard for her. So he touched her gently, soothed her with hands that seemed much too big in comparison to her own delicate frame, until she shivered, and pressed her lips against his neck.

"Take me to bed, Lucien," she whispered.

That was hardly the sort of request he could deny; he kissed her once, softly, drank in the taste of her before he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of her crinoline skirt, and sent it tumbling to the floor. He nearly groaned, then, for beneath it she wore a pair of white lacy knickers that were as sheer as her bra, a matching white lace suspender belt around her waist to hold her stockings in place. She had certainly dressed for the occasion, his Jean, but it was the glimpse of the dark curls at the apex of her thighs, the tantalizing stretch of skin just above her stocking tops that had him weak for her; she had no need of satin and lace, to make him want her. Just Jean, that was enough for him.

An order had been given, and it must be followed, and so he caught her bum in his hands and lifted her easily, delighting in her breathless laughter as she flung her arms around his neck and caught her legs around his hips, holding tight to him. The soft swell of her bum filled his hands and her lips found his, again, and so he kissed her and strode purposefully from the sitting room and the pile of their abandoned clothing.

There had been a bit of trouble, he recalled, when Jean first learned that the Queen's bed was traditionally separate from the King's. She did not want to be kept apart from him, nor did he wish to spend a single night without her. Since the day she'd returned to him Lucien had been sleeping in the King's bed alone, dreaming of her, and he was comfortable there. But it was not to the King's bed he carried her; that wouldn't do, he thought. That room was meant for a King, alone, and Jean deserved better. Jean deserved the rooms that had been restored for her according to her taste, deserved warmth and company, two arms to hold her and never let her go. Devotion, and desire, dedication and delight, these things were owed to her, he felt, and so he marched with purpose to the Queen's bed, and laid her gently down atop it. She reclined against the navy coverlet, a picture of beauty in her white lace, the silver circlet still nestled in her dark curls. Perhaps he could have joined her there, but there was something else he wanted to do first, and so with his hands on her knees he spread her legs and then knelt there at the foot of the bed, staring up at her. All the while she watched him through hooded eyes, the fierce grey-blue of them not sparkling with mirth but burning with a passion to match the one that swelled within him.

Slowly he reached for her, his eyes never leaving her face, watching her as she watched him. With practiced ease he unclipped the stocking on her left leg, caught it in his hands and rolled it slowly down, the long, soft expanse of her skin now bare and begging for the touch of his lips. But Lucien had a plan, now, and would not be deterred; the moment the first stocking landed silently upon the floor he reached for the second. Still Jean reclined above him, propped on her elbows, the movement of her soft breasts as she breathed nearly enough to distract him from his task. Nearly, but not quite, for he could be a determined man, where his Jean was concerned.

When the second stocking joined the first Lucien leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, his hands catching hold of her now, soft skin sliding like silk against his palms. Above him Jean moved, as well, freed one of her hands so that she could run her fingers trough his hair.

"My love," she whispered to him when he caught her gaze, and at those words Lucien smiled, and kissed her thigh again.

"My wife," he breathed, before turning his attention to the other side. He kissed her there, too, and then looked up at her.

"My queen."

Something dark and wanting flashed in Jean's eyes, then, and Lucien just grinned, and pulled her hard against him. The scrap of lace between her thighs was damp already, giving silent evidence to the need that pulsed within her, the delectable results of his teasing. It made for a pretty sight, but it was in his way, and so he stripped those knickers off her as quickly as he could, and then returned to her at once, flinging her right leg over his shoulder and curling his hand round her thigh as he leaned in and dragged his tongue against her glistening folds.

* * *

The moment his tongue touched her Jean's head snapped back, pleasure coursing through her like a lightning strike. He had been teasing her, his every touch so slow and deliberate, until she felt she must surely break beneath the pressure of her passion for him. His broad, strong hand was warm around her thigh, his waistcoat smooth and sliding deliciously against her bare leg where it rested along his back, and his mouth; _oh, _his mouth would surely be the end of her. That, too, was a tease, his lips against her tender folds, hot breath against the heat of her, his clever tongue coaxing out her secrets, the scratch of his beard harsh in an agonizing, beautiful way. It was not the first time he had done this for her, not the first time she had known the wet heat of him against her, but it _felt_ new, somehow, as if everything they had ever done, everything they had ever been, was forgotten, now, to be made new in this bed they would share. His tongue slipped inside her and tore a gasp from her own lips, at the sensation of him inside her and yet not nearly enough, not nearly enough of _him._ There was more he could give her, and more she wanted besides, and he seemed to know it; that clever tongue danced away to swirl around the nub at the center of her ache while he brought his hand in to join his mouth. His fingers, longer, thicker, more dexterous than his tongue, more demanding still, stroked through her wetness, spread her desire until she could feel them slick with her own wanting. And when she was ready, nearly on the verge of begging for him, the longest of those fingers slid between her folds to curl up hard against her, stroking that spot inside her that made her see stars while his lips sucked hard on the very center of her pleasure. Her inner muscles fluttered around his finger, desperate for something to hold on to, her belly pulsed with need, tension tightening through her limbs; she could not draw breath, could only gasp, tightening the hold of her thighs around his head, clenching her own hands in the bed sheets while her back arched. _Close_, oh but she was close; she could hear herself gasping, high and needy, a whimper lodged somewhere within her chest. Her hips rose up hard against his face, chasing her release, and still he thrust against her, teased her with his tongue, seemed with every movement of his lips and hands to be pushing her ever nearer the brink. _This _was not new, this sense of chasing something just out of reach, the familiar rhythm that would send her tumbling from the cliff if only he did not falter in his pace. It was a dance she had undertaken many times before, not only with him, but it felt special, somehow, to share it with him now, in this room, in this bed, on this night. Her body knew the way and so Jean gave herself over to the sensation, let the fire burn through her, and at last a ragged cry escaped her as Lucien thrust a second finger inside her, and sent her hurtling out into the stars.

Pleasure hummed through her, her every muscle shaking with need of him, coiled so tight she felt she might break until at last she did, and went slack, pulsing against his mouth and shivering with delight, her heart so full of joy she feared it might beat right out of her chest. _He _had done this for her, had bent all of himself and his considerable skill on _her_, her pleasure, wanting only to see her fall to pieces and know that he was the cause of it. Her man, her king, he was everything to her, and it seemed to her that for the moment nothing else in the world existed save for him, caught between her thighs.

She was weak as a kitten, now, and could not have moved if she wanted to, but Lucien seemed to understand. He rose slowly to his feet, towered above her with a somewhat smug grin upon his face, though his lips were glossy with her desire.

"Come here," she panted at him, and then closed her eyes, gave herself over to bliss. She could hear the faint sounds of him undressing, perhaps taking off his waistcoat, but she did not open her eyes, only lay still caught in her own delirious pleasure. She had asked for him, and he would come, she knew, for he had come for her when she felt all hope was lost, had proven to her that whenever she had need of him he would be there, always, hers.

At last he joined her, there on the bed. He drew her into his arms and her eyes fluttered open, the racing of her heart beginning to calm as she lay sheltered in his embrace. While she had been recovering he had dispensed with his socks and his shoes and his belt, had stripped out of his waistcoat and shirt and trousers, and now lay beside her wearing only his trunks and a brilliant smile.

"I suppose you're quite pleased with yourself," she teased him gently, brushing her thumb against the swell of his full bottom lip.

"Just so long as _you're_ pleased with me, my darling," he answered her, his palm dancing across her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair. She was still wearing that silly silver circlet, that pale imitation of a crown, but though it would have been more practical to toss it aside she left it in place for she could still hear him saying _my queen _in that voice so low and full of heat. She _was_ the queen now, and his, and she rather liked the idea of looking the part.

"I'm always pleased with you," she told him, smiling.

"We'll see about that."

With those words Lucien rolled over, covered her body with his own bulk. She lifted her legs on instinct, caught his hips in the cradle of her thighs, but he did not mindlessly thrust against her; he was still wearing his trunks, and he seemed focused on an entirely different task. The suspender belt was still in place around her waist - and surplus to requirements, now that her stockings were gone - and she wore her bra as well, and it was there his focus went at once. His soft beard scratched against her tender skin as he traced one lacy cup with his tongue, followed the place where fabric met skin and sent a trail of goosebumps rising in his wake. It did not escape her notice, that he was taking his time with her; they had not had nearly enough chances to be alone in recent months, and they had not ever really been able to take their time with one another, unconcerned with the world beyond, with who might stumble across them, with schedules and restraints. The whole world was asleep, and it was their wedding night, and they could do as they liked. Lucien scraped his teeth gently across her skin and she shivered, but then he peeled the lace from her skin and wrapped his lips around her nipple instead, and a whimper slid past her lips, high and needy. The ache low in her belly so recently sated swelled into life once more, and as he lavished all of his attention upon her breasts she could not help but lift her hips, grind against him in search of some relief. What she found was that through the soft cotton of his trunks he was already hard as marble, and she slid herself against him, receiving a groan and a nip of his teeth against her breast as reward for her boldness.

Still he stayed where he was, in the valley of her breasts, using hands and lips both to drive her nearly mad with longing for him. In the course of their previous dalliances he had learned already what she liked, where she most wanted him to touch her, what sounds she might make when he did, and it seemed he meant to apply those lessons now, for his tongue swept along the underside of her breast and she arched up towards him, shivering and eager for more. One hand she tangled in his hair, holding him against her, and the other traveled across his back, fingertips following the topography of his scars as if they were a map only she could read, a trail of sorrow long forgotten, a reminder of the past they shared, the war that had changed them both, torn their lives apart and yet brought them together. He did not falter in his devotion to her skin when she touched him, and Jean counted that a blessing, and determined to treat him gently.

Lucien was growing less gentle by the moment; he was losing control of himself, she knew, just as she was losing all sense of time and place. The neat line of his teeth found the curve of her breast again, and his lips closed round her, wet and hot, and she felt it, felt the sting of it, the surging, blessed fire in her own blood as he sucked his mark into her skin, where no one else could see. Perhaps she should have chided him for it, but she understood the impulse, and so she did not stop him, only scraped her fingernails across his shoulder and arched her back to press her breast more firmly against his mouth.

His name slipped past her lips and at the sound of it he raised his head, smiling up at her. Between her legs she could feel the heavy weight of his arousal straining for her, and she could see the thick vein jumping in his neck as he tried to contain himself, could see the want in his eyes, could feel her own desire mounting.

"Enough of this," she told him softly, her fingers still dragging through his hair. "I want you, Lucien."

She had had enough of waiting, enough of teasing, enough of gentle affections and quietly whispered words. The rest of their lives sprawled out before them, an endless expanse of time in which they could lie together and touch one another however slowly they pleased, as tender and as reverent as they liked. Right now, in this moment, she did not want more waiting, more time. She wanted only _him. _

"Yes, my darling," he answered her, and then he was rolling away, shucking off his trucks while Jean peeled off her own bra.

As he moved beside her Jean watched the play of his sleek muscles as he lifted his hips and divested himself of his trunks, but before he could resume his position over her she moved into action at once. With a mischievous smile she straddled him, her knees coming to rest on the mattress on either side of his body, her hands pressed to the mattress by his shoulders, his cock caught between their bellies as she leaned forward and he groaned, soft and needy. His eyes followed her hungrily, and she felt decadent, luxurious, warm and naked and with him in that vast bed with its heavy curtains thrown back, the silver circlet still nestled in her hair, diamonds sparkling in her ears. Jean had never known such bounty before, and most days it still made her uncomfortable, but in this moment she reveled in it, feeling as if she held everything she'd ever needed there between her thighs.

Without need of guidance her lips found his collarbone and his hands found the curve of her bum, clutched her tight and encouraged her to roll her hips against him. The hot, hard length of him met the soft, wet place where she ached for him and she gasped against his skin, drowning in sensation. There were not words, she thought, for the intimacy of this, joined and yet not as they were. This trust, this vulnerability they shared with one another without hesitation, without restraint, and she found a sort of peace in this place, with this man, such as she had never known before.

At his encouragement she raised herself up, her tender folds gliding against his silken shaft, ecstasy sparking from the place where they met to send a shiver racing down her spine. The friction they created between them, the shape of him pressing against that place where she needed him most, her own aching heat painting him with her arousal, was dizzying in its intensity, and she repeated the motion again, and again, grinding against him and drawing another helpless moan from his beautiful lips. For a moment she indulged in this simple pleasure, the lightness in her heart, the beautiful agony of her king's face as he threw his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes and groaned against the bliss she inspired him. _She _had done this to him, had pinned this titan of a man beneath her slender frame and caused the vein in his neck to tighten, caused his body to tense, caused his cock to twitch against her in eager anticipation, caused him to open himself up to her, wholly and without reservation. It was a heady thought; there had not been many times, in the course of her life, when Jean had felt herself in control of her circumstances, but she felt it now. This gift Lucien had given her, and she would be forever grateful for it.

Once more she rose up, but this time she moved with a sense of purpose, reached between their bodies and caught his cock in her hand, held him place as ever so carefully she sank down upon him. As the head of his shaft plunged between her soaking folds she could not help but gasp; it had been so long, too long, since last she'd held him, and she had almost forgotten how it felt to take him inside her, to mold herself around him and hold him tight, every blessed inch of him. She leaned forward and as she did he raised his head, his lips falling to the corner of her mouth as still she eased down on him, taking him in deeper, and deeper still.

"_Oh_, my darling," Lucien breathed, shaking beneath her, though she could not say whether it was joy that made him tremble, or the strain of holding himself back for her sake. Her own arms were unsteady as she held herself suspended above him, as she dropped her head to hang low between her shoulders, the bristle of his beard catching against the softness of her cheek.

She could hardly breathe, could hardly think, could only _feel _as she sank down on him, took him into her completely until they were flush together, panting and desperate and alive. It was unthinkable, really, that there had ever been a time when she had been without him; how could she have ever thought to leave him? How could she have ever believed they could carry on without one another, without this pleasure, this connection, this relief? It seemed unthinkable to her now, that she should ever part from him; they were one, bound together by chains no man could break, now. He was _hers._

She held him there, tight within her, and lowered herself atop him, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, and his arms rose up at once, holding her close, enveloping her completely. And in that moment, utterly surrounded by him, his heat, his strength, his love, Jean turned her head, and pressed her lips to the taut line of his neck.

"_Mine_," she gasped, teeth catching against his tender skin.

Beneath her Lucien's hips bucked up, hard, thrusting against her and tearing a whimper from the back of her throat.

"Yours," he answered breathlessly and her heart sang in her chest, a bird set free from its cage. The need was building, low in her belly, and she could not help but move, then, rocking against him, every nuance of the push and pull between their bodies sending her closer and closer to the very brink of bliss. She shifted atop him, lifted herself up and leaned over him, and he moved with her at once, catching her thighs within the cages of his broad hands and raising his head so that he could wrap his lips around one of her tender nipples. The rough scratch of his beard and the gentle lap of his tongue sent her reeling, and her body responded to the call of her desire without any conscious thought. She rose above him and sank down again, and again, gradually finding a rhythm that suited her, a steady, eager motion that had him pressing against her everywhere she burned for him. With each downward pass of her body he raised his hips to meet her, added his own latent power to her movements, the plunging of his hardness into her a pleasure so exquisite she could not help but moan. Everything about this moment, them together, his lips and his tongue and his hands and his hardness buried within her, her own body shivering and trembling with pleasure everywhere he touched her, was so beautiful, so raw in its honesty that if she could have spared the breath she might well have wept.

"_God,"_ the word left her quite without her realizing it as their dance continued, as her body tensed and tightened around him and his fingertips dug in hard to the soft flesh of her thighs.

"_Yes,_" was his breathless answer, the word a plea muffled against the curve of her breast where the heat of his mouth had left another darkening bruise. Still she held herself there, rocking against him, rising up and sinking down, again and again, thinking she could happily do this for all the rest of her days, spend every moment wrapped up in him and the pleasure he stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, to wind her fingers through his soft hair and cradle his head against her breast, but her hands remained in place, holding her steady while she worked over him, and he met her, point and counterpoint until it all became too much to bear.

Desperate, eager, chasing her release she ground against him, and it seemed to her in the next moment as if something within him had snapped, as if some otherworldly strength had been released, for his hands left her thighs, trailed fire along the curve of her back until he caught hold of her shoulders. Those hands, those strong, beautiful hands held her down hard against him, and she gave herself over to him, her trembling arms collapsing as her hands sought out his hair and his hips thrust up hard against her. He had known, somehow, what it was she wanted, had proven once again how well he understood her, how well they complimented one another, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and panted her pleasure, as he took her with a ferocity that shook her to the core. The hard slap of his body crashing into hers, the low, gravelly sound of his voice as he grunted with exertion, her own high-pitched moans echoed loud in that space, and for perhaps the very first time, Jean found she did not care, could not bring herself to worry about the noise they made. This was _right,_ she told herself. This was where they belonged. Together.

"Jean," Lucien's voice carried with a warning note she recognized all too well; he was close to his own release, his movements growing somewhat erratic, and just the thought of it, the knowledge that she had brought him to this point, that they had reached this precipice together, threatened to undo her.

"Harder," she told him breathlessly, and he complied at once, drove into her with such reckless abandon that in a moment she was falling, moaning, clenching him tight within her as the tightly wound coil of her desire sprung free at last and flooded her every sense.

"_Christ," _Lucien gasped, thrusting into her release, hard and hot and hungry, prolonging her exquisite agony until he, too, could bear it no longer, and with a final groan he was coming undone, spilling into her with all the force he could muster.

* * *

It was the first warm rays of sun that woke Lucien the following morning. They had not taken the time to draw the curtains round the bed, and so the dawn breaking beyond the castle infiltrated that space, filled it slowly with glorious radiance. It was Christmas morning, and a Sunday, and the day after the wedding, and so he knew that there was no need for him to move just yet, to leave the warmth of this bed and his beautiful wife, sleeping in his arms. Oh, he would have to leave eventually; they were meant to have breakfast with Li and Lin and young Christopher, who had been given his own private suite to stay in whenever he visited his mother. There were presents tucked beneath the Christmas tree in the parlor he dearly wanted to watch Jean open. There would be work to do later; there was always the damnable red box and its many papers to sign, and there would be a Christmas feast, but first there was _this, _lying in this bed, with Jean, alone, and happy.

They were naked, still, their legs tangled together beneath the bed sheets, Jean's face buried in the crook of his neck. Somehow, miraculously, she still wore her silver circlet nestled amongst her unruly curls, and he smiled to see it. _My queen, _he thought, his fingertips softly tracing the lines of her face; there was no doubt in his mind that she would make a fine queen, would make their people proud as she made him proud, but no one else would ever get to see her quite like this.

Or so he'd thought, for he'd no sooner bowed his head to kiss her awake than the door swung open, and Jean's maid Lucy came bustling in.

The poor girl's mouth dropped open as she caught sight of them, her face gone pale as new snow in her shock. No doubt she had expected to find this room empty; the bed in the King's suite was bigger, and that was the place Lucien had been sleeping of late, and it would have made altogether more sense for the King and Queen to have fallen together there. It fell to Peter to rouse him in the mornings, and while Peter was accustomed to finding his King in all sorts of states poor Lucy had never seen anything quite like this, Lucien was sure. The coverlet was gathered around their hips, having been thrown off at some point in the night - they'd generated more than enough heat between the two of them. Lucy had entered from the door behind Jean, and so had been granted an unencumbered view of her new queen's bare back, the king's arms around her.

Lucien lifted his head and caught Lucy's petrified gaze, and then lifted a single finger to his lips in a request for quiet. Jean was still sleeping, and he'd quite like to keep it that way. Lucy nodded, dumbstruck, and when Lucien gestured for her to leave she turned tail and ran, though she paused just long enough to close the door slowly, rather than slamming it, for which Lucien was very grateful.

He allowed himself a chuckle, then, and bowed his head, and kissed his wife, who hummed and kissed him back as she slowly woke. It was Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, and he was alone with Jean. They would leave this place and join their children soon, celebrate the holiday as a family, but for now, for this moment, the world was quiet, and he was content.


End file.
